


Flight 221

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, Airplanes, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Hijacking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Watson Saves Sherlock Holmes, John to the Rescue, Johnlock - Freeform, Lost and Found, M/M, Mary haters --there is no sex between Mary and John and she's barely in this fic., Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Peril, Pining, References to Drugs, Rescue, Reunion, Sex, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Whump, Tender Sex, Whump, injuries, john chooses Sherlock, john is conflicted, non-explicit reference to sexual activity between teenagers, oddly frequent mentions of peeing (not in a sexual context!), set in 1993
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Two years after an injury in the Gulf War ended his military career, Dr John Watson is settling into an ordinary, predictable life. He's got a steady job, a fiancee, and everything's great...right? Flying to Boston for a medical conference, he finds himself seated next to a beguiling and oddly familiar American. When the plane is hijacked, John is back on the battlefield, but this time he's not fighting the Republican Guard in the desert. He's fighting a cold, calculating lunatic for the lives of the passengers- especially the American. Their chance meeting has dredged up a regret that John has carried for fifteen years. Can he redeem himself?  And when it's over can he go back to his old life? Does he want to?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 77
Kudos: 54
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PeaGeeTibbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaGeeTibbs/gifts).



> This fic is complete-it is not a WIP. I will post 2-4 chapters twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays. Special thanks to PeaGeeTibbs for bidding on my FTH auction. She wanted an AU with some BAMF John rescuing a hurting Sherlock. It was supposed to be 5K words, but the story got out of hand and I ended up with 45K! 
> 
> I have taken liberties with certain facts. If you are a physicist, medical doctor, botanist, or aviation specialist, or live in Boston, my apologies--This is fiction--free fiction :).
> 
> Style note: This fic is written with British spellings (e.g. colour vs color). HOWEVER, Sherlock is American and in his dialogue and in chapters that are from his POV, I use American terms and pronunciations (e.g. elevator vs lift, airplane vs aeroplane).

_July 1978, Putnam Station, New York._

A full moon emerged from behind the clouds in the dark sky over Lake George. The July air was still and heavy, and the lingering smell of the extinguished campfire two hundred yards away mixed with the smoke from the joint that seventeen-year-old Johnny Watson held between his thumb and forefinger. Long grass tickled his bare arms and legs as he lay there, watching the night sky and listening to the frogs and crickets perform their nighttime symphony. Sixteen-year-old Will Andrews lay beside him.

A light moved in the sky. At first, it looked like a falling star, but it moved in a straight line, leaving a faint trail. It was an aeroplane, like the ones that would take them home tomorrow, to different homes in different countries.

“I’m going to fly one of those someday, or maybe a spaceship,” the younger boy said matter-of-factly.

“You wanna be a pilot?” 

“Yeah. I’ve been taking lessons. Got my student license already. I’m gonna take the test to get my PPL—my private pilot license—when I get back to Nebraska. So yeah, I’d like to be a pilot. It’s the first step toward astronaut. I just know I want to be something important, and what’s more important than an astronaut?”

“Maybe a Rock Star? Like David Bowie.”

Will considered this for a moment. “Nah. You’d have to deal with too many people. Be nice to fans. If you’re an astronaut, you’re all by yourself up there in the sky.”

“You’d have a crew.”

“You could be my crew—just you and me, up in orbit—and Eurus. I had to promise her I’d take her to space with me. Man! Won’t it be a blast looking down on all the pathetic earthlings?”

They both laughed. 

“I don’t wanna go back,” Johnny said, passing the joint.

“Me neither. At home, I’m the weird kid everyone picks on. Here, nobody bothers me. I think it’s because of you. They probably think you’ll kick their asses if they mess with me.”

“They’d be right.”

“We’re gonna write to each other, aren’t we?” Will said. And I’ll save my money to come visit you in England.”

“Sure.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” Johnny replied. And at the time, he had meant it.

They smoked and watched the night sky for a few more minutes, and then Johnny spoke again.

“I didn’t want to come here; thought I was too old and too cool for camp. I wanted to hang out with my mates before going to uni this fall, but my parents made me come. Said Harry was too young to travel to America by herself.”

“What changed your mind?” Will said, rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow before taking a long drag. Johnny turned his head to see bright, piercing eyes, pools of pale blue reflecting the moonlight, under a dark mop of curls. Those eyes had stared at him with intensity on the first day of camp from across the circle where they sat cross-legged on the floor of the meeting lodge. The gaze made him feel like all his secrets were written across his forehead, and the boy was reading them. It had made him want to squirm, but it also made his stomach flutter.

“You,” Johnny said. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. I’m not…I’ve never…” He struggled to find the words, “I don’t understand what’s happening…but I don’t want to say goodbye. I **like** you.”

That wasn’t what Johnny wanted to say, not at all. “I like you?” _Geez._ That was something you said to a friend or a rugby teammate, not someone who seemed to know your very soul, who’s skin smelled and tasted of summer sun, who’s secret wink across a crowded room made your knees weak, and whose mouth on your lips and _oh, god, on your dick_ made you forget Sarah and Jeannette, and every girl you’ve ever been with. 

But the corners of Will’s mouth turned up in a small, lopsided smile. Leaning close to John’s ear, he whispered in a voice like melted chocolate. “Show me how much.”


	2. Chapter 2

_April 1993, London_

“Which do you like best?”

“What?”

“Pay attention, John! Which do you like best, the sunflowers or the gardenias?” Mary tapped her finger on the photos that lay spread on the kitchen table next to his breakfast plate and the brochure for the medical conference he would attend this week _._ On the front of the pamphlet was a colourful photo of the Boston skyline and the words, “Internal Medicine Update for Primary Care.”

“What’s this for again?”

Mary huffed in exasperation. “For the centrepieces, John! For our wedding. We are getting married in five months, remember?” 

John stared at the photos. Too many choices. This wedding planning was beginning to feel suffocating. Overwhelming. And he didn’t bloody care about the flowers.

“The gardenias,” he said.

Mary frowned. Gardenias was apparently the wrong answer.

“You like the sunflowers?” John said. 

“I was leaning that way.”

“Sunflowers then. Mary, I don’t know why you even ask me.”

“Because it’s **our** wedding, darling.” She leaned down for a kiss, and John tilted his head to oblige her.

“Sweetheart, you have excellent taste. I trust you. Just tell me when and where to show up. Make me a list of things I absolutely must do. A short list, please.”

“Number one will be to ask for two weeks leave from the clinic,” she said. “If you ruin our honeymoon, I’ll never forgive you. Number two will be to make a guest list. I can’t make any definite arrangements until I know how many guests. Do you have any idea how many you’ll have?”

“I dunno. Some colleagues from the clinic, old army buddies. Sholto and McTeague, for sure. And you know how small my family is—it won’t be a long list.” 

“Have you given more thought to me moving in?” Mary asked. “We could save a lot of money.”

John hesitated. He honestly didn’t know why he was resisting. She was right; between them, they were paying two rents when they could be paying one. After all, they would be spending the rest of their lives together, so what were five more months? 

He was embarrassed to admit that he was clinging to these last bits of his bachelorhood with a kind of desperation. He loved Mary, didn’t he? They had been dating for almost two years, and she was smart and pretty and everything he should want in a woman. In a wife. So why did he feel a knot of doubt in the pit of his stomach? Pre-wedding jitters, he told himself. Perfectly normal.

He smiled up at her. “I’m sort of old-fashioned. I plan to carry you over the threshold and all that. Let’s just wait, yeah? Maybe look for a bigger flat. Ours are both so tiny.” 

She hummed noncommittally, and he knew she was far from done making her case on the matter. Before she could argue further, John glanced at his watch and announced that he had to run if he were going to pack and make his flight to Boston.

She handed him a paper bag. “Biscuits. Oatmeal—Your nanna’s recipe.”

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. “You are the best, Mary Morstan—soon to be Mary Watson.”

“I know it,” she replied, laughing. “You’ll call me when you get there?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t have too much fun without me. I’ve heard stories about those medical conferences,” she teased.

“All work and no play, I promise.”

“No strippers?”

“Cross my heart.”


	3. Chapter 3

Back in his own flat, he hurriedly tossed clothes and toiletries into his suitcase. It was only April, but the conference brochure advertised a heated rooftop pool at the hotel. He hadn’t worn swimming trunks in ages, but he was sure he had a pair somewhere. He went to his tiny wardrobe, thinking it was far too small for both his and Mary’s clothes. He was clearly justified at keeping this place just for him. At least that’s what he told himself. 

He took down a dusty box from the top shelf and dumped it onto the bed. Out tumbled seldom used clothing and things that he couldn’t bring himself to throw out or that he just hadn’t found a place for yet. His Military Cross, his army pistol, a folding knife with a five-inch blade he forgot he even owned, a threadbare stuffed dog from his childhood. And there were his swimming trunks—light blue with a bold orange stripe. He thought about how he would look in them. They would still fit. He self-consciously touched his stomach. He wasn’t as lean as the last time he had worn them, on a trip to the beach soon after returning from the Gulf, but he jogged and went to the gym regularly, and his thirty-two-year-old physique would still turn some heads.

As he lifted the trunks, he saw a corner of a photograph peeking from beneath a Pink Floyd concert T-shirt. He reached for it and pulled it out. It was an old Polaroid. In it were two teenage boys wearing only shorts, one fair-haired and the other with a wild mass of dark, almost shoulder-length curls, his features obscured by shadow. The dark-haired boy had his arm draped across the blonde boy’s shoulder. They stood on a dock with a lake behind them. A little girl with long brown hair sat in front of them with her feet in the water. On the white section at the bottom of the photograph, in fading ballpoint pen, was written “Johnny, Will, and Eurus - Camp Kanawha, 1978.”

He fingered the stiff paper. He hadn’t seen this picture in years. Sometimes he tried to forget that it existed. That **they** had existed, he and Will. _That glorious summer_.

John stared at the photo and at Will’s slender body. He remembered thinking that the younger boy should have been awkward with those long skinny limbs, but he wasn’t. He moved with the grace of a cat and with the same economy of motion. He hadn’t been inclined to join in the camp activities unless forced, but when he did, he was good. Good at art, good at archery, good at swimming, even as he complained of hating all of them. If John hadn’t been so enamoured by him, he would have been jealous. Instead, they had become fast friends. And then more. Much more.

He wondered if Will had become a pilot or an astronaut. It wouldn’t surprise him. Not in the least. He’d had no contact with Will after camp. Although Will had written to him. A lot. When the first letter arrived in the post, John had tossed it in the rubbish bin without opening it. And the next one, and the next one. Finally, after six months, they stopped. 

His mother, a devout Catholic like the rest of his family, had asked him why his friend from camp stopped writing. He had made some lame excuse. Harry had been sworn to secrecy about John and Will’s relationship at camp, and thankfully, she never told on him. She had been old enough to understand the consequences of such a revelation. 

John rummaged in the pile until he found a braided leather bracelet with a blue bead at each end of the braid. It had been an arts and crafts project at camp. John had made one with red beads, and Will had made one with blue beads. On that last day, before they got on separate busses to leave camp, John had tied his bracelet around Will’s wrist, and Will had tied his around John’s.

He tossed the bracelet back onto the pile and picked up his Military Cross. He really should display it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. Of the five passengers on the Humvee that horrible February day two years ago during Operation Granby in Iraq, only three had survived the IED attack. John, Sholto, and McTeague. Murray and Camden had died. Camden died immediately, but Murray died in John’s arms. McTeague lost a leg, Sholto was disfigured, and John walked away with a shoulder injury that ended his military career. It was true that his quick actions had saved the two men, but he would never forgive himself for not saving Murray. He fingered the cross and then dropped it onto the bed.

Hastily, John returned the items to the box and returned it to the shelf. After tossing the trunks into the suitcase and securing it with a bright yellow security strap, he hesitated. Then he took the box down again and dug through it. He took out the knife because, why not? You can never be too prepared.

He glanced at his watch and realised he’d spent far too much time walking down memory lane, and he’d have to hurry if he were going to make it to Heathrow on time. He slipped the knife into his duffel bag, planning to transfer it to his suitcase before he went through security.


	4. Chapter 4

Traffic was lighter than expected, and his taxi arrived at Heathrow with time to spare. After checking in, he stopped at an airport shop to find something to read. He browsed the bestseller rack, but nothing caught his eye. Moving on, he picked up a paperback from a display of mark-downs and flipped through it. It was a collection of novellas by Stephen King called _Different Seasons_.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” came a voice from over his shoulder. He turned to see a round-faced man with spectacles. “Not scary, like his other ones, but really good. I hear they’re going to make a film out of the first story.”

John smiled. “Thanks, mate. I’ll give it a go.” He took the book and a pack of gum to the checkout counter. After paying for his purchases, he headed toward his gate, tucking them into his duffel and not watching where he was going.

“Umpf!” He slammed into a body. Looking up, he saw a tall man in a “Mind the Gap” sweatshirt, a Union Jack “London” cap, and dark aviator sunglasses. _Tourist._

“Oh! Sorry, mate!” John said.

The man nodded curtly but didn’t speak or smile. He gave John a brief once-over before continuing on his way. _Rude. And who wears sunglasses indoors?_ “Hope you enjoyed your stay,” John muttered sarcastically under his breath. 

********

John stowed his duffel and settled into his main cabin seat with a little grunt of dissatisfaction. He could have easily afforded business class on his physician's salary, but Mary had grand plans for an extravagant honeymoon; Fiji had been mentioned. And so he was doing this business trip on the cheap. He was already regretting this when a large woman with her even larger male companion made their way toward his row.

 _Please no. Please no. Please no_ , he thought, but to no avail. They stopped beside him and indicated that they were to occupy the window and middle seats. With a sigh, he rose from his aisle seat to let them in. This was going to be a long flight indeed. He buckled his seatbelt and picked up his book. He was just about to open it when a flight attendant at the front of the main cabin called for everyone’s attention.

“Welcome to British Airways Flight 221 to Boston!” she said in a bright voice that sounded authentically cheerful. “We will be on our way shortly, but before we start our taxi to the runway, I have a favour to ask.” She paused and looked over the passengers, and John heard groaning and muttering throughout the cabin.

“I need a volunteer,” she continued. In John’s experience, this usually meant that the flight was overbooked and that she was looking for someone to give up their seat.

The passengers, probably with this very thought, remained silent.

“If no one volunteers, I’m going to have to pick someone,” she warned, still with that sunny smile on her face. She looked almost gleeful.

 _What the hell,_ John thought. What’s the worst that could happen. He’d get to Boston late but maybe end up on a less full flight or next to a couple of supermodels instead of his current oversized seatmates. It was theoretically possible, anyway.

He raised his hand and looked around as he did. No one else raised their hand.

“Sucker,” someone said.

The flight attendant smiled even more broadly and made her way toward him. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ll need you to gather your belongings and come with me.”

He smiled back at her and bent to retrieve his bag from under the seat. “So, how late am I going to be?” he asked as he followed her out of the main cabin and to business class. She said nothing but stopped and turned to him. “Not late at all, sir. You’ll be sitting right here.” With a dramatic flourish, she indicated the seat next to her. 

“What?” said John, surprised. “I thought you were overbooked?”

“We are—in the main cabin, but we had an open seat in business class. This is your lucky day. Fortune favours the bold.” She winked.

“OK, then...um—Molly,” he said, reading her nametag. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure! I’ll be your attendant. If you need anything, just press the call button. Now please take your seat, and we’ll be on to Boston.” She hurried away and disappeared into the galley.

“Fantastic,” John exclaimed, plunking down into the roomy cushioned seat. There were footrests, a pillow and blanket, and a bottle of sparkling water. Everything to make the nearly seven-hour flight tolerable, if not enjoyable. He looked around the business class cabin. His seat was on the left side of the cabin in the fifth row, the last row in business class. To his right were two businessmen, each reading the _Financial Times_. In front of them, he could just see the profile of a tall, balding man with a hooked nose. He looked ill-tempered, and his fingers drummed the armrest in a steady beat.

Finally, he looked to his left, curious to see his new seat companion. The business class seats had a semicircular privacy partition at head level so that he couldn’t see the window seat's occupant. Glancing below the partition, he saw a black leather biker style jacket with silver hardware, a hand with long white fingers with an ornate silver ring and manicured nails, neat black jeans, and black combat-style boots that had been polished to a shine. It was like the man was going for the popular grunge style—but without the actual grunge. Some rich, posh bloke, no doubt. He was about to lean forward to greet the man but thought the better of it. He might end up being the chatty sort, and John just wanted to read his book and maybe have a kip.

After take-off, he opened up the Stephen King book and looked at the table of contents. The first story was “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.” The chubby man in the shop had said it was going to be made into a film. John wasn’t a big fan of horror, but one of Mary’s favourite movies was King’s _Misery,_ and they’d rented it several times since they began dating.

_Mary…_

He resolved to do some soul searching this week about their relationship and engagement. It wasn’t like he was into someone else. There **was** no one else—at the moment, anyway.

John had had his fair share of lovers. Maybe more than his fair share. Quite a few of them men. After Will, he’d gone out of his way to prove to himself that he wasn’t gay, sleeping with girl after girl, and then woman after woman. But one night, when he was twenty-four, he found himself drunk in a hotel room with his dick in a rent boy’s arse, the first of many. And he soon found that if he paid extra, they’d let him tie them up and be a little rough, just for fun. No one got hurt, and both parties got what they wanted. So it was all good.

And then the AIDS epidemic hit, and he met Mary.

Mary had big doe eyes and a great laugh. She could be bossy, sometimes, but mostly they got along. They were compatible in bed, and she was a brilliant conversationalist. She was everything a girlfriend should be. And he had gone along and gone along, and suddenly they were engaged. This terrified him. It was so **permanent.** And now he wasn’t sure it’s what he wanted. Not that he didn’t love her. But it felt like something crucial was missing.

He didn’t want to be boring Dr John Watson, working nine to five and coming home to the same routine every night. And what about kids? She wanted them, but he wasn’t sure. He was only sure that he didn’t want to end up like his own parents. They hadn’t divorced because of their Catholic faith, but they clearly couldn’t stand each other.

Mary knew that he’d been with men before, but she didn’t know how many. Maybe he needed to tell her. Spouses shouldn’t have secrets. Perhaps he should tell her and let the chips fall where they may. It might give her a reason to call off the wedding. Then he wouldn’t have to decide. It would be decided for him. She could be the bad guy instead of him…

All this was running through his head as Molly went through the safety spiel that no one ever listened to.

The peevish looking man in row four was talking on a mobile telephone, and as soon as Molly finished her speech, she asked him to please turn it off. The man looked annoyed out but complied without complaining.

John picked up his book again and began to read.

> _There’s a guy like me in every state and federal prison in America, I guess—I’m the guy who_

“I hope you won’t be snoring.” The baritone voice with an American accent came from the other side of the partition.

“Excuse me, what?” John said.

“I hope you won’t be snoring,” The voice repeated.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Or chewing ice.”

John was silent.

“Or grinding your teeth.”

“You know there are such things as headphones,” John said, annoyed.

“I don’t like things on my ears.” 

“Well, I’ll try to keep it down over here. Is there anything else?” John said with as much sarcasm as he could muster while glancing again at the polished boots. What an arrogant, self-centred dick this guy was. Rich people thought they could tell everyone else what to do.

“That seat was supposed to be empty.” The voice was almost petulant. “They assured me that it was empty. If it weren’t enough **that this godforsaken flight is** **non-smoking**.” He said the last words loudly as if talking to someone else, and the man in row four scowled in their direction.

Although he still couldn’t see him, John started putting a face to the man with manicured hands and expensive leather jacket. Spiked hair dyed blonde, maybe eyeliner. Handsome. Tom Cruise handsome. Looked tall too, the git.

“I guess my good fortune was your bad luck,” John said. 

The voice mumbled something, and John could only catch the word “people.”

John decided to ignore the posh American on the other side of the partition and enjoy his unexpected luxury.

Reclining his seat several inches, he returned to his book, only to be interrupted again by a ding followed by the captain’s voice greeting them, telling them the travel time to Boston, warning that bad weather was ahead, and to remain seated with seatbelts fastened. Sure enough, the sky outside the cabin had darkened, and raindrops pelted the windows. Soon, the plane bounced and lurched. It was a minor storm, and John wasn’t bothered by it.

He had made it through twenty-five pages of the hundred-page story when he noticed a restless movement on the other side of the partition. Glancing down, he could see the legs moving, crossing and uncrossing. And he thought he could hear fingers tapping and quick, shallow breathing. 

John rapped a knuckle on the partition. “You all right?”

“Leave me alone.” 

“Fine.”

John settled back in his seat and tried to read, but he could still hear the man’s rapid breaths. What if he were having some sort of health crisis while John, a doctor, ignored him?

Unbuckling his seatbelt, John leaned forward and peered around the partition.

 _Christ_.

The man in the seat was leaning against the closed window. His skin was a sickly grey and coated with a sheen of sweat. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and his hands gripped handfuls of fabric on the thighs of his jeans. His chest heaved. John instantly recognised that the man was having a panic attack. He’d had his share of these in these last few years. After Iraq. 

“Hey. It’s OK, mate. It’s OK.” John placed a hand on the man’s knee.

His eyes flew open, and his leg jerked away from John’s hand. 

“I said, leave me alone!” His lip curled up in a snarl, and John thought that if the man weren’t shaking so hard, he would have hit him.

John raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I won’t touch you. It’s just that I’m a doctor…”

“Did my brother send you?” The man’s tone was accusing. 

“No, I swear. I was back there in steerage, and it was just chance that I got this seat. But honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if it was actually an upgrade…”

The man was still shaking, but his screwed-up features relaxed as he stared at John with astonishment. He blinked, then swallowed hard.

His reaction made John wonder if his own appearance was as much of a surprise as his seatmate’s was to him.

John had got it all wrong. He hadn’t got the poshness wrong, just the details. The man’s hair wasn’t blonde and spiked but was a halo of soft dark curls, many of which were now plastered to his sweaty forehead. He was clean-shaven, and his features were striking, with high cheekbones and eyes that were a swirl of pale blue and grey. He had a small silver ring in one earlobe and a tight grey T-shirt under the leather jacket, which was spotted with perspiration. John had the sudden feeling that he knew him.

They stared at one another for a silent moment. And then another. John’s brain struggled to place this handsome stranger who seemed so familiar, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know many Americans, and he would have remembered this one.

It was the eyes. His eyes looked like Will’s. And the hair? John studied the carefully styled locks. Will’s hair had been much longer but curly like this stranger’s. But the nose was all wrong. Will’s nose had been entirely different. _Not Will, then_. John had probably just thought of him because he had come across that old photo that morning.

“You’re having a panic attack,” John soothed. “I know one when I see one. I’ve had plenty myself. Try to breathe. Is it the turbulence?”

The man nodded miserably.

At that moment, the plane lurched, and the cabin lights flickered, eliciting gasps from the other passengers.

John’s seatmate stiffened, and the hand which had been clutching the fabric of his jeans reached out toward John, and without thinking, John took it. It was cold and clammy and also huge compared to his own. The man’s eyes were scrunched closed again.

“It’s all right,” John said. “It’s just a bit of rough air. We’ll get through this, OK? We will. I know how these things work. I know how it feels. Just try to breathe. Can you think of something pleasant? Do you have a wife?” He glanced at the man’s left hand and saw no ring on his finger. “Maybe a girlfriend?”

The man huffed. His eyes still closed. “No. Not really my area.”

John chided himself for making assumptions. 

“Boyfriend then?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Oh.”

“And if that bothers you, you can let go of my hand.”

“No. No, it’s all right. It’s all fine. All of it. Really. It’s good.” 

The plane lurched again.

“Oh, Christ,” the man groaned.

“Let me call the flight attendant, get you a drink.”

“I need something stronger than that—a lot stronger. Or a cigarette. Anyway, they won’t bring us drinks while this turbulence is going on.”

“Since we’re holding hands, can I ask your name?” John said, trying to keep him talking.

“Sherlock.”

“I’m John. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Do you have a handkerchief? For your face?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Here, take mine.” John pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock, who looked at it as if he’d been given a dirty nappy.

“It’s perfectly clean. I haven’t so much as sneezed into it,” John assured him. 

Sherlock still looked suspicious, but he used it to mop his forehead and neck.

The plane was riding more smoothly now, and rain no longer pounded in torrents against the windows.

“I think we are past the worst of it,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.

As if by unspoken agreement, they released each other’s hands, and John settled back into his seat. The partition once more blocked their view of one another’s faces.

“I apologise,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I’m quite embarrassed by what just happened, and I appreciate that you went beyond the call of duty for a seatmate.”

“I’m a doctor,” John said. “It was no trouble at all.” 

“Still, I’m embarrassed. It’s why I wanted the seat next to me empty. That, and because I generally prefer to be alone.”

“You don’t like people?”

“Not most of them. And most of them don’t like me. There have been…incidents. So now I just try to ensure that no one sits beside me. My brother Mycroft,” Sherlock gestured to the balding man with the hooked nose, “is much better at avoiding unpleasant entanglements. He tells me I’m hotheaded.”

“That’s your brother? Why don’t you just sit with him?”

Sherlock laughed. “He’s one of those people I don’t like. In fact, he’s near the top of the list. If I had an actual list, his name would be double-underlined.”

“Hmmm. I’ve got a sister that I don’t exactly get along with,” John said.

“I’m not very good at small talk,” Sherlock said, and John sensed that he might be trying to end the conversation.

“Right. Got it. Well, I’ll leave you alone and get back to my book. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yes, thank you again, John.”

What a strange bloke. John found that there were questions he wanted to ask. Were his panic attacks caused by PTSD, like John’s? Why didn’t he like his brother? Was John on the list of people he didn’t like? Sherlock and Mycroft? What kind of strange names were those? Why had he been in London?

And he was gay. And gorgeous. Much taller than John, whip-thin, and with beautiful eyes. Those eyes. God, they reminded him of Will. _Will again._ First, the photo, and now this stranger.

Their relationship had been fifteen years and countless lovers ago. And he had only known him for six weeks. So why was the thought of him making John so…warm? Perhaps it was nostalgia for a simpler time. For youthful abandon, for discovery. When everything seemed new and imbued with possibility. It probably wasn’t nearly as great as he remembered it. Time has a way of painting memories with a rosy tint.


	5. Chapter 5

John opened his book and looked at the words, but he was thinking of that summer. His home life had been rough. He fought with his parents, and his parents fought with each other. It was exhausting. He had been accepted to Edinburgh for pre-med, and he couldn’t get there fast enough, although it meant leaving fourteen-year-old Harriet alone in that miserable place. He still felt guilty about it. If he had been around, things might have gone better for her. Harry had run away from home the year after and got mixed up with a bad lot.

But for part of that summer, they had been happy. Away from their parents, across the ocean, on their own. It had been exhilarating. And then he’d met Will, the sensual, brilliant boy, and they had been inseparable. Will adored his little sister Eurus, and she often tagged along, but John hadn’t minded because she was a great kid.

Will had already known he was gay and carried no baggage about it. It was simply who he was, and he was comfortable in his own skin. He wasn’t effeminate; he seemed like just a regular guy, and John might have never guessed if Will hadn’t stared at him across the circle on that first night with an intense and unapologetic longing that made John squirm. Then Will had given him that cute, lopsided smile, and John had smiled back.

They bonded right from the start. John appreciated Will’s dry humour, and Will appreciated John’s athletic prowess. They were both readers and spent lots of time discussing books. John was a Lord of the Rings fan, but Will pronounced the books mind-numbingly dull. 

Then it became more. One night after lights out, they snuck out of their cabins to go on a hike. Will produced a bottle of Black Velvet whiskey he had stolen from one of the camp counsellors and a pack of Marlboros. They got so drunk that it was a wonder they made it back to camp. But they did, laughing and staggering.

“Shh! We’re going to get into trouble,” John warned.

“I don’t care!” Will retorted, and he opened his mouth like he was about to shout.

“Stop it!” John said, pushing Will against the plank walls of the cabin and putting his hand over his mouth to silence him.

Will didn’t fight but slid down the wall, staring at John.

John stared back. They were just inches apart, and John was acutely aware of their closeness. And of the heat of Will’s skin, and the smell of his sweat. John’s heart was pounding in his ears, and the chirp of crickets seemed deafening in the otherwise quiet night. They both stood absolutely still, and John could feel Will’s lips beneath his palm, soft and full. 

Will’s eyes were boring into him, waiting. Right then, John knew that Will was waiting for him to make a move. Either to release him and say goodnight or to kiss him. And John knew which one he himself wanted. Still looking into Will’s eyes, John slid his hand from Will’s mouth to rest on his shoulder. Will’s perfect lips parted, and the pink tip of his tongue appeared and touched his top lip in seductive invitation.

And John accepted it without hesitation. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Will's mouth. He tasted of tobacco and whiskey and… **boy**. It was so different from kissing a girl. Girls were all softness and curves and perfume. As he pressed against Will, he felt angles and bones and muscles, and it was an incredible turn-on.

He found Will’s wrists and pinned them against the cabin's plank wall, and Will let himself be handled this way with no protest. John kissed him again and again. Even though he had Will pinned against the wall, he wasn’t being rough. It was urgent, but there was a tenderness to it. And it was a revelation. It was as if he had been waiting for this kiss for his whole life, and all the girls had just been practice for the real thing. 

Will lifted his chin and let John place hungry kisses on his jaw and neck. Finally, John released Will’s wrists, and they fell into a tight embrace. Soon, John was aware of a hardness against his hip. Will had an erection, easily felt through the thin fabric of their summer clothing. John’s own cock was responding too, and he had a sudden burst of embarrassment about it.

He took an awkward step backwards.

“What’s wrong?” Will said.

“I…um…That was…” John didn’t know what to say.

“You liked it,” Will said, and it was not a question.

“I’m not gay,” John said lamely.

“Maybe you are, and maybe you’re not,” Will said. “But you felt something…” He looked down and shuffled his foot in the dirt… “Didn’t you?” He didn’t sound so confident anymore. He looked up at John through his lashes.

John’s first instinct was to flee into his cabin. To chalk this up to the whiskey. To forget about it. But he remained rooted to the spot. Maybe it was Will’s pleading look. Maybe. But it was more. It was the realisation that he wanted more. He wanted more of Will. Every cell in his testosterone-flooded body was telling him this. 

_What to do?_

Will extended his hand, the moonlight reflecting off the skin of his long, graceful fingers.

John reached out and took it. “I did.”

And this time, Will kissed **him**.

*********

And then he hadn’t answered Will’s letters and had tried to deny what he’d felt. He regretted it now. But that was all in the past. But this stranger and the photo had worked in concert to dredge up all those old feelings, reminding him of something unfinished and unresolved. A debt left unpaid. Another regret among so many in his life…


	6. Chapter 6

“You are a very slow reader.”

“I’m sorry? What?” John said.

“You’ve been looking at that page for at least six minutes. You must be a terribly slow reader.”

“I was…lost in thought, I guess.”

Sherlock was peering around the partition. He looked better. Colour had returned to his cheeks, and his breathing was normal. 

The intercom crackled, and the pilot announced that they had cleared the bad weather, although they might encounter pockets of turbulence and more storms as they got closer to Boston. Sherlock exhaled audibly at the news. 

At that moment, Molly appeared.

“Excuse me. Would you like to order drinks? Our meal service will start shortly, but I thought you might want a cocktail first.”

“Double gin and tonic for me,” Sherlock said. “Tanqueray, please. With lime.”

“Make that two,” John said.

“And can this thing be removed?” Sherlock touched the privacy partition.

“Certainly.” She reached between them, and after about thirty seconds of unscrewing and tugging, it was gone.

“Menus are in the seatback pocket. May I suggest the chicken cordon bleu? It’s excellent!”

After she left, John pulled out the menu and studied it.

“I never eat on planes,” Sherlock said.

Molly brought their drinks, and John ordered the chicken.

“So, you know that I’m a doctor. What do you do?” John asked.

“I’m a Physicist at MIT.” 

“Really?” John said, impressed.

“Yes, really. You seem surprised.”

“It’s just that...You don’t look like a scientist.”

“What do I look like?”

“Um, I dunno. A rich playboy. A musician?”

Sherlock looked amused. “I assure you that I am a scientist. And an exceptionally good one.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a magazine, holding it up for John to see. The magazine's title was “ _Journal of American Physics,_ ” But what caught John’s eye was the cover. On it was a waist-up photo of Sherlock, wearing a dark suit, no tie, with arms crossed, and staring into the camera with a look of unmistakable arrogance. Like he knew something you didn’t and couldn’t wait to tell you so. He looked incredibly sexy. Beneath him were the words “An Interview with Physics Phenom Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s you!” John exclaimed.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, smiling.

“What do you…um teach…do you have a speciality?” John said.

“Electromagnetics—specifically, electromagnetic radiation—the waves of the electromagnetic field. You might know them as radio waves, microwaves, infrared, visible light, ultraviolet, X-rays, and gamma rays. It’s much more complicated than that, obviously.”

“You’re famous, then.”

“In physics circles, I guess.”

“Maybe I should get one of those magazines and have you autograph it for me.” 

They both laughed.

A delicious aroma filled the cabin as a flight attendant announced the dinner service. They were in the last row of business class, and John’s stomach began to growl as the passengers in the forward seats were served. Finally, Molly, tray in hand, approached with his meal. Just as she reached it, the plane lurched, and the tray flew from her hand and landed upside down on the floor of the aisle beside John.

“Oh! Molly exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” She knelt to pick up the spilt food, and John unbuckled himself to help her.

“I’ll get you another right away.” But even as she spoke, the plane lurched again.

The intercom crackled.

“This is captain Douglas. We are experiencing more turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. Flight attendants, secure the galley.”

Molly looked distraught. “I’m so sorry, sir! She reached into her pocket. “I hope these will tide you over. She pulled out two packages of peanuts and a package of pretzels and handed them to John before retreating hastily with the spoiled food to the front of the plane.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered, ripping open a packet of peanuts and emptying them into his mouth. The plane lurched again, and he turned to check on Sherlock. 

Sherlock had stiffened, and his eyes were closed. John could see the effort he was putting into keeping calm.

“That’s it,” John said. “Just breathe.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, biting his lip.

“What do you need,” John said. “Tell me.”

Sherlock said nothing but placed a sweaty hand palm up on the armrest between them. Without hesitation, John took it. The plane pitched and rolled, and each time there was a drop, Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers so hard they hurt. But John didn’t complain. 

He knew from his own experience that distractions helped. So, he thought he’d try that tactic with Sherlock.

“Why don’t you tell me about this electromagnetic business? It sounds fascinating,” John said earnestly.

“I know what you’re doing,” Sherlock said.

“Maybe so, but I’m actually interested. I’m sitting next to a famous physicist. I’m not going to waste the opportunity to learn something.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. His eyes still closed.

“Electromagnetic radiation refers to the waves of an electromagnetic field. They are emitted by electrically charged particles undergoing acceleration. Electrodynamics is the physics of electromagnetic radiation, and electromagnetism is the physical phenomenon associated with the theory of electrodynamics. You’ve heard of electromagnetic pulses?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Would blast the electrical grid to shit. Right?”

“Yes. An electromagnetic pulse is a short burst of electromagnetic energy. It could be naturally occurring – for instance, from a solar flare or a lightning strike, or it could be man-made. A nuclear electromagnetic pulse – or NEMP results from a nuclear explosion. And yes. Such a pulse could destroy an electrical grid. Just think of everything that we depend on for our everyday lives. As time goes on, we’ll depend on these things for even more. You have a computer?”

“Yes.”

“Someday soon, we’ll all have computers in our pockets, perhaps implanted in our bodies. Computers will be integrated into every aspect of our lives. We’ll be dependent. And If someone has the ability to destroy all of it in an instant…”

“We’d descend into chaos.”

“Yes. And defence capabilities would be decimated.”

“That’s scary stuff.”

John noticed that Sherlock’s breathing had slowed, and he seemed to be concentrating on the topic. _Good. Keep him talking_. “So nuclear countries then, like Russia.”

“Yes, countries with nuclear capabilities are considered the highest threat. But if there was a way to generate a high-intensity **non-nuclear** EMP, and if it could be done cheaply, then every banana republic could hold the rest of the world hostage. It would upset the world order. People would die.”

“But there isn’t?” John said.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Not yet.” 

The captain interrupted.

“I apologise for the rough ride. We should have smooth sailing in a few minutes. We are currently at an altitude of thirty thousand feet, and our expected arrival time is one p.m. local time—an on-time arrival. Current conditions in Boston are clear skies and a temperature of fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit, twelve degrees Celsius.”

And in a few minutes, the turbulence did subside, and holding hands began to feel awkward, although he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t end it. It felt nice.

John was definitely attracted to Sherlock. He was exotic and sexy. Maybe it was his hands, with their elegant white fingers and manicured nails. Or his long legs. Or perhaps it was his exquisite neck. His face was oddly proportioned. Large and long. His eyes were multi-coloured _like Will’s,_ and his mouth was lush _like Will’s_. His nose was the only thing ordinary about him, strong and retroussé but otherwise unremarkable. Will’s had been more roman.

Could he even remember what Will looked like—really? It had been so long ago. He saw him in dreams sometimes. But his dreams of Will were mostly just sensations. Laughter and the feeling of skin on skin. Fresh grass and warm sunshine, soft lips, whispered words, and the salty-bitter taste of come.

Sherlock pulled his hand away.

“Thank you, again,” he said simply.

“Not a problem,” John said. “Is turbulence your only trigger—for the panic attacks? There are antidepressants you can take that might help. I could write them down for you.”

“I have some, thank you. I just prefer not to take them when I need to think. I’d rather just endure it than slow down my brain.”

John’s stomach growled loudly. He checked his watch, which he had reset to Eastern time. 10 a.m. Three hours to Boston. He could push the call button and get something to eat or try to sleep. He still had a package of peanuts and the pretzels. And then he remembered the biscuits. Rummaging in his duffel, he found the bag. He opened it and saw a slip of paper on top of the biscuits. He pulled it out.

_I miss you already!_

_Love,_

_Mary_

_XOXOXOXOX_

John smiled. She really was a good girlfriend. And she would be a good wife. But would he be a good husband when his heart wasn’t in it? She deserved more. 

“Who’s that?”

Was John imagining things, or was there a hint of accusation in the question? And it was awfully cheeky for Sherlock to be reading this personal note over his shoulder and demanding answers.

“Fianceé. Would you like a biscuit?” John said, offering the bag to Sherlock. “They’re oatmeal.”

A shadow passed over Sherlock’s features, and he turned away, crossing his arms and staring out of the window. “No, thank you.” John was bewildered. Had he offended the man by offering the biscuits? Sherlock said no more and continued to stare out into the clouds.

John ate the nuts, the pretzels, and the biscuits and washed them down with the bottle of sparkling water. Then he finished the last few pages of “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” and returned the book to his bag. The man in the shop was right. It had been excellent. He reclined his seat as far as it would go, pulled up the blanket, and closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

John tried to sleep but couldn’t. He thought he recognised the look on Sherlock’s face. Disappointment. Disappointment that John had a fianceé. Was Sherlock interested in him? The thought tickled the edges of John’s brain, and he began to consider the possibilities. They would be in Boston together, and Mary was an ocean away. 

Was he actually considering a casual fuck with this stranger, and if so, what did that tell him about the state of his relationship? Shit. It wasn’t good. He hadn’t even made it to the U.S., and already he was being unfaithful. At least in thought. The guilt made his stomach churn. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about the man sitting next to him. 

Sherlock was gay. He had practically said as much. No boyfriend “at the moment.” And while he hadn’t actually flirted, John could sense an interest. Not an invitation exactly, but an openness. As if Sherlock were waiting for John to make the first move. John opened his eyes to sneak a glance at Sherlock. He was still looking out of the window sullenly.

John stared at the ceiling for a minute and then closed his eyes. Inappropriate thoughts were tumbling through his mind now, and he couldn’t stop them. Was Sherlock a top, a bottom or versatile? John had discovered that outward appearance and demeanour were seldom a predictor. Guys who held the most powerful positions in their day-to-day lives were often the ones that most enjoyed getting railed. John was betting that Sherlock fell into this category. And for purposes of the fantasy he was about to have, that is what John was going to assume.

He imagined the Sherlock on the magazine cover. All confident and smug. He imagined unbuttoning that tight white shirt. No, scratch that. He imagined grasping the collar and ripping it open, sending the buttons flying from the expensive garment. He imagined watching Sherlock’s blue eyes open wide as he gasped at the violence of it. John was just pushing the ruined shirt from the white shoulders when his little scenario was interrupted.

“Where are you staying?”

“Excuse me; what?” The intrusion of reality confused John momentarily. 

“Where are you staying?”

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring down at him.

“Excuse me; I was sleeping!”

“No, you weren’t. You were having a sexual fantasy.”

“How…. What the…” John sputtered.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. I’m doing you a favour. Sparing you from an embarrassing situation.” His eyes flicked to John’s crotch. “And sitting in wet underwear would be so uncomfortable.”

John didn’t know what to say. Or how Sherlock knew what he had been doing. He raised his seat to the upright position.

“Well?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow and waited.

John decided the best thing to do was just let it go.

“The Westin, on Summer St. There’s a medical convention—"

“I thought we might have dinner…”

“Dinner?” Was Sherlock inviting him to dinner? The man went from hot to cold to hot again at the drop of a hat.

“I…um…thought I put you off somehow. That you were angry.” 

“No. Not angry. Just… it’s a long story. Forget it. I thought company for dinner might be nice for a change. I usually eat alone. I can meet you there.”

“What about your brother? Don’t you eat with him?”

Sherlock shot a disgusted look toward his sibling. 

“Rarely. He’s insufferable. Although I do enjoy eating dessert when we dine together so I can watch his face. He’s always dieting, and I don’t gain an ounce no matter what I eat. It’s childish, I know. But I like taunting him. It’s one of the few advantages I have.”

“Sibling rivalry?” John guessed.

“He thinks he’s smarter than me and never lets me forget it.”

“Is he?—Smarter than you?” John queried.

Sherlock made another face. “Perhaps.”

“So, about dinner. There’s a reception tonight. I should put in an appearance,” John said. 

“I stay up late.”

“All right then, a late dinner it is.”

John reclined his seat once more and closed his eyes, this time without an accompanying fantasy. He was looking forward to the dinner with Sherlock tonight. Convention receptions were usually tedious affairs, and it would be nice to have an excuse to bow out early. But he couldn’t help thinking that Sherlock was propositioning him. Dinner could be perfectly innocent. Until it wasn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

Somewhere over the icy waters of the North Atlantic, John woke. The cabin was dim and eerily quiet. He had to pee. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was a still dark form in the low light. He appeared to be sleeping. John checked his watch. Another ninety minutes to Boston. Could he wait? Yawning, he decided he couldn’t and unbuckled his seatbelt.

The loo was occupied, and John waited for several minutes, but no one came out. His bladder was full, and he shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he knocked, but there was no response. He gave up and went to the first class lavatory. No one stopped him.

After relieving himself, he looked in the tiny mirror. He looked OK. Not as stylish as Sherlock, perhaps, but presentable. Handsome, even. He rubbed a hand over his short beard and combed his hair with his fingers. When he exited the cubicle, Molly was right outside.

“Hello,” John said.

“Hi. I’m so sorry about your lunch, Doctor Watson.”

“No worries,” he assured her. 

“I could bring you something cold.”

After convincing her that he wasn’t hungry, he started toward his seat. As he passed through first class, he noticed the rude tourist, the one with the Mind the Gap sweatshirt. He was still wearing his sunglasses and cap and was listening to a Walkman. The bald black man beside him was doing a crossword. Neither looked up. The other first class passengers appeared to be sleeping.

Likewise, in business class, most of the passengers were asleep. As he passed the second row, he saw an older woman in a floral blouse and headphones, swaying and bopping to music. She looked up and smiled at him as he walked by. He smiled back. 

Sherlock's brother was awake and looked up from his newspaper as John passed, eying him suspiciously. Sherlock had called him insufferable, and John was beginning to believe him.

When he reached his row, the plane jolted. Not violently, but enough that John put his hand on the seat to steady himself. As he did so, the man in the seat across the aisle slumped from his seat and against John’s hip.

“Oh,” John exclaimed, surprised. He expected the man to wake and right himself, but he remained still.

“Sir,” John began, grasping the man’s shoulders and easing him upright. The man didn’t rouse. The man next to him was also sleeping, his head cradled by a travel collar. He was wearing headphones and seemed oblivious to everything that was going on. 

The lighting in the cabin was dim, but the overhead light above the first man was on. Now that he was upright, John could see his pallor and the bluishness of his lips. He frowned.

“Sir?” He shook him, but still, the man didn’t stir.

With a rapidly growing concern, John picked up the man’s wrist and searched for a pulse. Nothing. In a split-second, John switched into physician mode. Not just physician mode but battlefield physician mode. In his GP practice, he dealt with mundane illnesses like shingles and the flu. It had been a long time since he’d faced an actual life or death situation, and adrenaline flooded through him like water over a breached dam.

_Call button!_

John pounded the call button with his finger while shouting. “Somebody! We have an emergency! Molly!”

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” he shouted at the man with the earphones. Nothing.

“What is it?” Molly was beside him in a flash. As he turned to look at her, he saw that Sherlock had risen from his seat as far as the low ceiling would allow and was watching with his mouth hanging open.

“He’s got no pulse,” John said. “Do you have defibrillators?”

“Yes. Of course.” Molly said.

“Get them. NOW! And let the pilot know there is a medical emergency.”

Molly nodded wordlessly, turned, and fled down the aisle.

John reclined the seat and immediately began CPR. Not only did the man have no pulse, but he also wasn’t breathing. John had just finished the first rescue breaths and was beginning chest compressions when Molly returned with the aeroplane’s medical kit.

“Open it!” John commanded as he ripped open the man’s shirt. After attaching the defibrillator pads to his chest and turning on the device, John waited for the ready light. When it lighted, he pressed the charge button. The man twitched. John waited a moment and then shocked him again. He checked for a pulse. Nothing.

After several more tries, John dropped to his knees beside the dead man, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. He had never got used to having patients die. Not in the A&E where he’d worked after medical school and not in Iraq. Saving patients was the highest high there was, but losing them was the lowest low. He looked up at Molly again. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was scanning the business class cabin with a furrowed brow.

John stood and followed her gaze. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the aisle by his seat, pale as a ghost, looking at his brother, who was returning the stare with an expression of loathing so intense that it could curdle milk. It took John a moment to register the odd thing. The **really** odd thing.

He and Molly had just defibrillated a passenger on a crowded aeroplane. He had shouted. More passengers than Sherlock and Mycroft should be out of their seats. More than just Sherlock and Mycroft should be bloody **awake**. And shouldn’t the pilot have made some sort of announcement?

But they weren’t. And he hadn’t. The passengers in business class continued to sleep, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded in the fifth row.

“Doctor Watson,” Molly said, finally looking back at him. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

“I have no fucking clue,” John said.


	9. Chapter 9

Something was wrong. Something was most definitely wrong. John turned his attention to the dead man’s seatmate. His head lolled. A small trickle of foam ran over his grey lips. John shouted at him, touched his arm, slapped him. Nothing.

“What the hell is going on?” he said to no one in particular. 

Are they…dead? Molly asked.

Before John could answer, Mycroft did.

“Yes. I believe they are.”

John pushed past to row four, checking pulses.

All dead.

Mycroft Holmes watched him silently.

Sherlock was back in his seat with his face in his hands. John ignored the brothers but continued his seat-by-seat inspection. He arrived at row two. The woman in the floral blouse’s eyes were closed, but her fingers moved on the armrest, tapping to the beat of whatever she was listening to. John touched her shoulder.

“Ma’am?”

She took off her headphones. “Yes, dear. What is it?”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, of course, I’m OK. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“How about him?” John nodded toward the man next to her.

She shrugged, whispering now. “He’s sleeping. My husband always sleeps on aeroplanes.” Then, seeing the look on John’s face, she turned to her companion and touched his arm, then his cheek. “Enrico. Enrico, wake up!” The man didn’t respond, and a little trail of foam ran from the corner of his mouth. The woman looked at John, then back at the man.

“What’s the matter with my husband!”

John leaned over the woman and put his fingers to the man’s neck. A formality, really. He knew what he would find.

He looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. She looked shocked, but she didn’t scream or cry out, and John thought this odd. It hadn’t happened often, but he had told wives—and husbands, that their spouse hadn’t made it, and this was not how they generally reacted. There were usually screams, and sobs, and tearful protestations. She looked stricken but in full control of herself.

“Was he poisoned?” She asked.

_Poisoned._

Of course. Poison made sense. If there were something in the air, John would have been affected. And Sherlock, Molly, and Mycroft. But poison…

Before he could answer, an Irish voice boomed over the intercom.

“Hellooo remaining passengers of Flight 221, this is **not** your captain speaking. However, he **is** a friend of mine. My name is Jim Moriarty, and if you can hear me, you are one of the lucky ones. The ones that didn’t partake of the most excellent Chicken Cordon Bleu or Blackened Salmon Salad. Can’t say I didn’t try, but as they say: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. Or eat. No matter. I just needed to thin the herd to a manageable number. If you are still alive, I need you to stay in your seat with your seatbelt securely fastened…and please shut up. Instructions will follow shortly.

John looked toward the front of the cabin. The man with the “Mind the Gap” sweatshirt was leaning casually against the bulkhead, microphone in hand. He was no longer wearing the cap and sunglasses.

“You, doctor. Get back to your seat. Your skills, while I’m sure they are admirable, can’t bring those people back. Go on now.” The man who called himself Moriarty made a shooing motion with his hand.

John threw back his shoulders and looked the man in the eye as a cold rage washed over him. He could take this man. He was sure of it. And he absolutely **wanted** to. He took a step forward. 

Jim Moriarty levelled a pistol at John’s head.

“I really must insist.”

_Fuck_

John raised his hands and walked backwards, glancing at the woman and giving her a reassuring look as he retreated toward his seat. His head was spinning. Not twenty minutes ago, he had been dozing off, thinking of dinner with the handsome stranger next to him, and now he was being threatened with a gun on a plane full of corpses. His first instinct had been to rush the man. And he had almost done it. He’d be bleeding out on the floor if he’d followed that impulse. Much better to retreat and assess the situation.

He sat heavily down into the seat.

Sherlock touched his arm. “Are you all right, John?”

“Yeah, yeah. You?”

“I’m fine. Is everybody dead?” 

“It appears that everyone except your brother and a woman in the second row… and the flight attendant—Molly, is dead. I don’t know what the situation is in the main cabin or first class.

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his face, deep in thought. 

“What do you think he wants?” John said.

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve got to take him out.”

“He can’t be alone, John. There must be more. Let’s wait and see what we’re up against.”

The intercom crackled, and Moriarty spoke again.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I need all of your electronic devices and weapons. Mobile phones, pagers, laptops, knives, the lot. Can’t have you alerting the authorities or playing the hero. My colleagues will be by to collect them.”

 _Knives!_ John suddenly remembered the knife in his bag. The one he had meant to put in his checked luggage. He had no idea how he’d made it through security without getting stopped. Quickly, he retrieved it and slipped it into his sock.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock seethed with anger, directed alternately toward the smirking man with the intercom and his brother Mycroft. He didn’t know who the Irish man was, but he had heard that name before. Mycroft had used it. This **had** to be Mycroft’s fault. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to go to London in the first place. He didn’t want to be on an airplane. Mycroft had obtained the speaking engagement for him, talked him into it, and then insisted on accompanying him. Sherlock should have known better; Mycroft always had ulterior motives. _Stupid. **Stupid**! _He should never have left Boston.

But then he wouldn’t have run into John Watson. Seeing Johnny had shaken him to his core. He’d changed, he had a beard now, but Sherlock had recognised him instantly. That face had been burned into Sherlock’s eidetic memory fifteen years ago, no matter how much he wished he could forget it. Johnny still had the same smile and endlessly expressive face. The sturdy, compact frame. The deep blue eyes. He was handsome, but not in a flashy way, not like Sherlock. But this may have been why they clicked all those years ago. The cliché might just be true; opposites attract.

Watching John as he sprang into action earlier and how he had kept his cool under pressure was impressive. He was everything Sherlock remembered he was. Through all those years. During that dark time in his life after camp when John hadn’t written him back, he had cursed him, and he had cried over him, but the one thing he couldn’t do was forget him. 

Vowing never to get hurt again, he drove away anyone who got close. He had had anonymous, emotionless sex, sometimes free, sometimes purchased. And he didn’t mind being alone—usually. He loved his work, and he threw himself into it one hundred and ten per cent. When he wasn’t working, there were drugs and alcohol to numb him. But always, under it all, kept deep down, was the bittersweet memory of that summer. The last truly happy time he could remember.

And now, out of nowhere, here Johnny—John—was. He sensed that John had felt the connection between them, but there had been no recognition. It was his nose, most likely. It wasn’t the same after the accident, the one that had left him with physical and emotional scars, including the fear of flying. He had considered revealing his identity until he found out about the fianceé, and his fledgeling hope was crushed. The dinner invitation had been an impulse. He couldn’t bear to let John leave his life again just yet.


	11. Chapter 11

“This is unacceptable!”

The voice came from Sherlock’s brother, who had risen from his seat. His face was flushed, and sweat shone on his forehead. 

“This was not the arrangement!” he shouted. 

The man at the front of the plane looked at Mycroft with mock surprise.

“People are **dead**!” Continued Mycroft.

“Couldn’t be helped.” Said Moriarty. “Over a hundred hostages would have been unmanageable. I knew there would be a few here and there who, for whatever reason, wouldn’t eat the food, including the star of the show, your picky little brother. I counted on it. That would leave me maybe six, maybe ten hostages. **That** we can handle.”

“Timms, how many of our guests in the main cabin are still with us?”

A large man with a crewcut and carrying a semi-automatic pistol emerged through the curtain between the main cabin and business class. “Two,” he announced.

Moriarty nodded thoughtfully. “Two in first class, four in business class, two from the main cabin, plus the one flight attendant. Nine total, I can work with that.”

John turned to Sherlock, “What the fuck is going on? What does he mean ‘star’ of the show?”

Sherlock was slumped in his seat with a hand over his face. “Oh, Mycroft,” he said softly.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” John hissed. “We are on a plane full of dead people with a crazy motherfucker, and who knows how many thugs. And it has something to do with you?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, and John saw fear in his blue eyes.

“I don’t know what’s going on, John. But if anyone asks, you don’t know me. We’ve only just met.”

“Um, right. I don’t know you. We **did** just meet.”

Sherlock paused for a moment and then shouted.

“And you are also a complete idiot!”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’ve been annoying me ever since you sat down. I wanted the row to myself. I was promised a row to myself, but they just had to give me the most irritating seatmate imaginable, blathering on until I wanted to kill myself!” Sherlock crossed his arms and stared angrily out of the window.

John’s head was spinning in confusion. Nothing was making sense. Twenty minutes ago, he was sleeping, and now he was on a plane full of corpses with a madman, going who knows where, and his sexy seatmate, who he’d actually considered cheating on Mary with, was likely the cause. And to top it all off, the same sexy seatmate was now hurling insults at him.

As he was trying to make sense of this, there was a jab to his shoulder.

“Turn out your pockets and gimme your bag.”

John looked up to see the bulky man, the one with a crewcut, looking down at him. “Now,” the man growled.

“Yeah, all right.” John removed his wallet, keys, and handkerchief from his pocket and handed them to the man, and then gave him the duffel. The big oaf patted him down, but fortunately, stopped at John’s thighs.

“Now you, genius,” said the man sarcastically, holding out his hand to Sherlock.

“You can tell your boss to go straight to hell,” Sherlock said as he handed over his things.

The man shrugged. “Whatever. Now come with me.” He gestured at Sherlock.

“Sherlock gave John a scathing look before stepping around him to exit the row. The hijacker grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pushed him roughly toward the front of the plane.

The intercom crackled, and Moriarty’s voice filled the cabin once more.

“Honoured guests. As you have probably guessed, there has been a change to the flight plans. Sorry, but you won’t be landing in Beantown. Yes, you are now hostages. But think of it this way; your heretofore boring little lives have been transformed and you are at the centre of international intrigue! It could be exciting! But make no mistake, I don’t have a conscience. It’s nothing personal; I’m sure you are all lovely people. But I will kill you as quickly as I’d squash a fly unless you do exactly as I say.

“I’m sure it’s creepy to be sitting next to a corpse. To be honest, it gives me the willies too. But we will be on the ground shortly, and we will be rid of them. Stay in your seats. Keep your mouths shut and wait for further instructions. If you need the loo, press the call button, and someone will assist you. Have a pleasant rest of your flight.”

 _What a fucking maniac_. Sitting in his seat, John couldn’t see much, but he thought he heard the soft sobs of a woman. It must be the woman with the dead husband in row two. She was finally crying. 

He pushed the call button.

After a few moments, Molly appeared. She was pale and shaken but seemed unharmed. 

“What can I get you?”

“I was wondering if they might let the woman in the second row join me, her husband is dead, and I’m worried about her.”

Molly glanced to the front of the cabin. “I don’t know. I’ll ask them.”

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’d better get back. They are watching me.”

“Molly.”

She looked at him.

“It’s going to be OK. If we keep our wits about us, we can get through this. Breathe. Think. Learn as much about them as you can. Above all, stay calm. Got it?”

She nodded.

“So, go ask them.”

“What?”

“Go ask them about the lady in the second row.”

“Right.”

After a few minutes, the bulky man appeared, pushing the older woman before him. John moved into the seat previously occupied by Sherlock, and the woman plopped down in the aisle seat.

She was sobbing. “He’s dead. Enrico’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” John said, placing a hand on her arm.

She nodded. “Thank you. But it was bound to happen at some point. I mean, given his profession,” she said, blowing her nose.

“Pardon?”

“I shouldn’t talk about that, but I always expected this would happen. I just wasn’t ready. I didn’t think it would be so soon. I’ll be fine. Really.” She took a deep breath and extended her hand. “Thank you for inviting me to join you. I’m Martha. Martha Hudson.”

He took it. “I’m John Watson.”

“Where do you think we’re going?” she said.

“I have no idea.”

“I think it’s about that tall, handsome man.”

“Yeah. He was sitting right here.”

Do you know why they want him?

“Dunno. He’s a scientist. Maybe something to do with that.”

“And we’re hostages! It’s so exciting!”

John raised an eyebrow. “Exciting?”

“Oh, yes, dear. This is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in ages!”

********

Just over two hours later, the plane landed. All the windows had been closed, so John had no idea where they were. They had been ninety minutes from Boston when the hijacking occurred, and so now they could be anywhere from Maryland to Canada.

The plane lurched and bumped, and although they were on the ground, John wondered if the rough ride was giving Sherlock another panic attack. He had been taken into the first class cabin, and John didn’t know if he was even alive. He prayed that he was. Sherlock had been sort of a prick, but John didn’t want him hurt. Despite the fact that he’d only known him for a few hours, he felt drawn to him. It was like Sherlock had a gravitational field that was pulling John in against his will. 


	12. Chapter 12

John scanned the room where he and the hostages had been imprisoned, taking stock of their situation. After they’d been herded from the plane with hoods over their heads, he had listened; he had sniffed the air. It didn’t tell him anything. There was nothing distinctive, no chemical smells, no sounds other than crickets and birds. There had been descending steps, eighteen of them, so they might be in a basement. 

When the hood was finally removed, he found himself in this large windowless room with the other surviving passengers of Flight 221. He counted eight. In addition to himself, Sherlock, Martha, and Molly, there was the heavyset man he recognised from the shop at Heathrow, a thin silver-haired man in a suit, a nondescript man about his own age, and a little girl with long dark hair, who was clinging to Molly. Mycroft Holmes was not there.

The walls of their prison were constructed of whitewashed cement blocks, and thin commercial-style carpeting covered the floor. There was a long metal table with six plastic chairs in the middle of the room and a pile of blankets and pillows in one corner. A television was mounted in another corner of the room, close to the ceiling. There were no windows and only two doorways. One of the doors was metal with a small barred opening and was currently closed and locked. The other was not a door at all, but a curtain which was pulled to the side, and through the opening, John could see a sink and toilet.

Sherlock sat against the far wall, away from everyone else, with his head on his knees. The other passengers were standing about, taking in their surroundings and each other. Martha Hudson was standing near John. He had held her hand for most of the journey to this place.

The captives stared at one another for a moment, and then everyone began talking at once.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Where are we?”

“I need my phone!”

“Who was that awful man?”

“We’re all going to die!”

And then the little girl burst into tears.

John stepped up onto a chair and held his hand in the air.

“Quiet!”

The cacophony continued.

“Oh, for God’s sakes. Do shut up,” boomed a deep voice, and silence fell over the room as everyone turned and looked at Sherlock.

He was still sitting on the floor, knees drawn up tightly against his chest. He looked small, but the power of his voice had drawn everyone’s attention.

“Thank you,” he said curtly. “I couldn’t think with all of your yakking. I recommend that you listen to Jo—That man. He’s a soldier. If you have any chance of getting out of here alive, it’s with him—even though he’s an idiot.”

“An idiot? I’m not an—Hey, how did you know…” John began, realising that he’d said nothing about his past. But Sherlock’s head had dropped onto his knees again. Thinking that there were more pressing issues at hand, John, still standing on the chair, turned his attention back to the little group of people who were all now looking at him, some with expectation and others with scepticism.

He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, wishing he were in uniform and doing his best to project an aura of authority.

“Well, then. As I’m sure you all know, we are in a predicament. Hostages for some purpose that I can’t guess. But one thing is certain; our captors aren’t shy about killing people. So, make no mistake, we are in danger. But lets’s not panic. It will only make things worse.

“While we're here, we might as well get to know one another. I’ll start. I’m Dr John Watson. I’m a medical doctor. Retired captain from the British Army, First Armoured Division, Fourth Infantry Brigade.” 

“Retired? You don’t look old,” the little girl said.

John smiled at her. “Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate that. I’m **not** old, but I got blown up, and they made me retire. And who are you?”

“I’m Louise, and I’m eleven next month, she replied. I was travelling to America to visit my aunt. My mum says I’m older than my years and let me come alone. Is the bad man going to kill us?” She sidled closer to Molly.

“He’ll have to get through me first,” John said.

“Most of you already know me,” Molly jumped in. “I’m Molly Hooper. I’m a flight attendant with British Airways. Most flights aren’t like this…just so you know…I’m sure they’ll give you a refund.” She smiled weakly and looked at the man next to her. 

“I’m Mike Stamford,” said the rotund man in spectacles. “I own a bookshop in Swindon. I’m on holiday. I wanted to see the Grand Canyon. I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon! And then this. Bloody hell, I have the worst luck.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

“Charles Magnussen,” said the tall, distinguished-looking man in the suit. I’m originally from Denmark. I’m in the information business.” He did not elaborate further.

“I’m Martha Hudson,” Martha said. I live in Florida. My husband was on a business trip, and I was travelling with him. And now he’s dead. I hope this wasn’t because of him, but I wouldn’t be surprised. His business isn’t a hundred per cent legitimate."

“I don’t think it was his fault,” John said.

“Well, it’s somebody’s fault,” broke in the nondescript man wearing jeans and a sport coat. “And I think it’s his!” He pointed toward Sherlock, who did not look up. “And why should we listen to you, anyway? Who made you king? Just because you were a soldier? So what?”

“Calm down,” John said. “We are all on the same team here. Let’s back up a bit. What is your name?”

“Philip Anderson. I’m in insurance. And I want to know why I’ve been kidnapped! And why you think you should be in charge!”

“No one is ‘in charge,’” John said, in as calm a voice as he could manage. “We’ve been through a lot today, and I understand that you’re rattled. But the best we can do right now is stay civil and cooperate, yeah?”

Everyone but Anderson nodded. He looked at John suspiciously but kept his mouth shut.

“Now, is anyone hurt?”

They all shook their heads. 

“Does anyone have a medical condition that I should know about?”

“I’m allergic to peanuts,” Stamford said.

“Noted,” John said, then addressed the group. “There's nothing we can do now but wait. I’m sure we’ll get more information soon and our governments, America, England, and Denmark, will be trying to find us. Let’s keep our wits about us. For her sake.” He gestured toward Louise. There was a general nodding of heads, even Anderson’s, although he was scowling.

John stepped down from the chair and approached Sherlock.

“Sherlock?”

No answer.

“Sherlock.” He touched the man’s shoulder and felt him flinch.

“You OK, mate?”

“It’s my fault.”

“What?”

“Anderson’s right. It’s my fault. It must have something to do with my work. Damn Mycroft!”

John sat on the floor next to Sherlock. “Where is he, anyway?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Dead, I hope.” Sherlock was still talking into his knees. “…never should have gone to London.” 

Tentatively, John reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Hey. It's going to be all right. We’ll find a way out of this,” he said, although he was not at all as confident as he sounded. “By the way…thanks for what you did a few minutes ago. Things were getting out of control.”

Sherlock finally turned his head, fixing John with his remarkable eyes.

“Don’t mention it. They were annoying me.”

“But could you maybe cool it with the ‘idiot’ business?” John said.

Sherlock smiled a sad smile. “I know you’re not an idiot, Johnny. I did it to protect you.”

John cocked his head. “What did you ca—"

Just then, the television clicked and buzzed, and everyone looked up as Moriarty’s face filled the screen. The camera panned out to show him sitting in a high-backed upholstered chair with a blazing fireplace in the background. He wore a dressing gown in a rich green and gold paisley pattern and held a cigar in one hand. He took a puff and blew out the smoke in a long exhale before speaking.

“Good evening. This is your host. You can call me Jim. I hope you’ll find your accommodations adequate. I know they’re a bit—institutional, but I assure you this is only temporary—one way or the other. I have every confidence that most of you will be back home, comfy in your own little drab, boring lives before long…that is…if I get what I want. I’m not going to tell you what that is just yet. That can wait until tomorrow. In just a few moments, you’ll be fed. My associates will return your belongings and provide some diversions to help pass the time. 

“I’m not a monster, you know. And I have no ill will toward any of you. But, as you might have guessed, neither do I have a conscience. It’s such a blessing not to have that burden. Not to worry about right and wrong. Only power. Only money.” He grinned a wide toothy grin that made him look quite mad.

“Enjoy your evening. The real fun starts tomorrow.” The lunatic grinned again and waved, and the screen went dark.

As if on cue, the door opened with a screech of metal, and three men entered. John recognised two of them. The first man, a redhead, whom John hadn’t seen before, was holding an assault rifle. “Step back!” he ordered, and Stamford and Anderson, who had been near the door, retreated to the opposite side of the room. Then the bald black guard entered, pushing a cart loaded with small boxes and bottles, followed by the hulking guard with the crewcut pushing a cart piled with their hand luggage and what looked like a collection of books and board games. Both of the men carried sidearms in holsters. They spoke not a word, and after parking the carts, turned and left the room. After they had gone, the redhead walked backwards out of the door, brandishing his weapon. Then, the door clanged shut, and the lock clicked, leaving the hostages alone once again.


	13. Chapter 13

The first cart held boxes of sandwiches, fruit, crisps, and an assortment of bottled beverages. Still stunned and fearful but also hungry, the hostages swarmed the cart. All but Sherlock, who hadn’t moved from his spot in the far corner, his head still on his knees.

John picked up two boxes and walked over to Sherlock, holding out a box marked “Turkey.” “You should eat. You didn’t eat on the plane.”

“No,” Sherlock said, without looking up.

“As a doctor, I’m going to recommend that you do,” John said. “Who knows what we might be in for. It would be best for everyone to be at one hundred per cent.” He crouched next to the brooding man. “C’mon. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the rest of us.” He tapped the box against Sherlock’s leg.

Sherlock turned his head until one eye was visible. John stared back at him with his best doctor look, not willing to give up. Finally, Sherlock sat back with a heavy sigh and leaned his head against the wall. “I suppose you’re right, but I do hope there’s no mayonnaise. There’s **always** mayonnaise!” he said, taking the box from John’s hand. As he did, his fingers brushed John’s, and he hesitated, his eyes flicking up to John’s as if there had been a pulse of static electricity between them. There hadn’t been, but there had been **something**. John felt it too. He held Sherlock’s gaze for an instant before looking away quickly and releasing the box. There was definitely some sort of connection between them, but this did not seem the time or the place to explore it. Not when there was the pressing matter of survival to worry about.

There was a beat of silence. 

“You should keep talking to the others,” Sherlock said. “They’re scared and looking for direction, and you need to cement your role as leader.”

When John raised an eyebrow, Sherlock looked at him, exasperated.

“Of course, you’re the leader,” John. “I saw how you took command, both here and back on the plane.” Pity you aren’t in uniform. Sherlock gave John an appraising look. “Uniforms do make a difference.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in an almost smile. “Plus, I’d like to see you in it.”

John blushed and changed the subject. **“You’re** the one who got their attention. Maybe you should do it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I have a loud voice, but I have no patience. If I were in charge, Moriarty would be the least of my worries; one of **them** would likely kill me. He gestured toward the group milling around the food cart. “Look at them, already bickering over who gets the roast beef. You need to keep them in line.”

John took his food and went to sit at the table between Louise and Mike Stamford. When he glanced back at Sherlock, he saw that he had opened the box and was picking tomatoes from his sandwich. 

“How is everyone doing?” John asked with forced cheerfulness.

“Well, let’s see,” Anderson said. He wasn’t at the table but had taken his food and was sitting on the floor against the wall. “Someone tried to poison me. I’m being held hostage by some nutter, and for all I know, this food is poisoned too. Yeah, I’m just bloody FINE!”

Stamford, who was just about to take a bite of his sandwich, stopped and stared at it suspiciously. “Ya really think it’s poisoned?”

“No,” John said. I don’t.” He glowered at Anderson. “Dead hostages aren’t any use, and if Moriarty wanted us dead, we would be dead. We should keep up our strength. Eat, everyone. Please.”

“This waiting is making me mental,” Molly said. “He said he wouldn’t tell us what he wanted until tomorrow. Why would he make us wait? I don’t understand.”

It was a good question. Why indeed?

“Does anyone still have their mobiles?” John said, and they all shook their heads. 

“You might consider keeping your voices down,” Magnussen said. They all looked at him. These were the first words he had spoken voluntarily since the ordeal began. “The chances are about one hundred per cent that this room is bugged.”

It was a good point, and John cursed himself for not thinking of it already.

Louise tugged on John’s sleeve. “Sir.”

“Yes, Louise?”

She cupped her hand and whispered into his ear. “I’ve got coloured pencils and a notebook in my backpack. Maybe we could talk with those so that the bad man won’t hear us.”

“Excellent idea!” John said, and she beamed with pride and hurried to retrieve her backpack from the cart.

“Hey! Someone’s been in my bag! My pencils are gone!”

“My guess is they’ve been through all our bags and that those pencils were considered potential weapons. Well, it was a good idea, Louise,” John said quietly, thinking about the knife that was still in his sock.

“Wait a minute,” Molly said, leaping up from the table. She located her handbag and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. Triumphantly, she held up a miniature Sharpie marker about four inches long. “Guess this didn’t look threatening.” She handed it to John.

John took the notebook from Louise, then motioned for Sherlock and Anderson to join the others at the table.

When they were all together, he spoke in a low voice. “If there’s anything that we don’t want heard, we whisper, or we write. I’ll keep the notebook and marker.” Anderson narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I want to keep them.”

 _Jesus Christ!_ _This guy is a total twat_. “I’m keeping them,” John replied evenly, rising to his feet. It didn’t even matter who was keeping the goddamn marker. This was a dick-swinging contest, pure and simple, and John did not intend to lose.

“I’ll ask you again,” said Anderson. “Who made you the boss? You think you’re a big man. You look like a little man to me.” He took a step closer.

John had encountered shits like Anderson before. He was an insecure bully, and John had no patience for bullies. He knew from the military that situations like this either brought out the best or worst in people, and clearly, it was bringing out the worst in Philip Anderson. If John didn’t nip this in the bud, he might get them all killed. Plus, he fucking wanted to put this dickhead in his place.

In a flash, Philip Anderson’s head was on the table, his cheek crushing a half-eaten biscuit. John held his neck with one hand and twisted his arm behind his back with the other. John had felt powerless and angry since their abduction, and now his repressed rage bubbled up. Taking it out on Anderson felt **good**.

“Oww!” Anderson cried.

John hiked up his wrist another inch.

“You’re hurting me!” the pinned man whined.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the idea,” John replied through clenched teeth.

“Please stop,” Martha implored.

John looked up. Everyone had taken a step back and was staring at him with wide eyes—everyone except Sherlock. Sherlock was watching with calm interest, and the corners of his mouth twitched like he was doing his best to suppress a smile.

“Yeah, right…Sorry.” John released Anderson, and the man stood up, brushing the crumbs from his face.

“You're fucking mental.” He sputtered.

John put his hands in the air in a placating gesture. “I admit that I took that too far. But we can’t be fighting among ourselves. We need to keep order—"

“John’s right,” Sherlock said. And I nominate him to be in charge. We need a leader.”

“You’re joking,” Anderson said.

“I never joke.”

“I second it,” Stamford said.

“Do I get to vote?” Louise said, looking excited.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, placing a hand on her head and smiling kindly. “All in favour?” Louise raised her hand right away, followed quickly by six others. All but Anderson, who crossed his arms defiantly and sulked.

“It’s decided then—Captain Watson’s in charge!” Sherlock said.

“So, what do we do now?” Stamford asked.

“I suggest we make a thorough examination of this place and go through our hand luggage to see what we have. Then we wait. We don’t have any other choice.”

“There are games,” Louise said. I saw them. With our bags. “We could play.”

Martha approached the piled luggage. “She’s right. There’s a deck of cards, Yahtzee and Cluedo.

At the mention of Cluedo, Sherlock, who had turned and was headed back to his corner, halted abruptly. “Did you say Cluedo? Is it like Clue?”

“Yes, dear. It’s the British version.”

Sherlock turned so fast that it was almost a pirouette and proclaimed, “I love Clue!”

The smile that lit Sherlock’s face was the biggest John had seen since he’d met the man. It made crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and John found it charming. It made him wonder what Sherlock’s laugh would be like. He thought again of the dinner that they wouldn’t have. Would he have been able to make Sherlock laugh? And would it have been a date, or simply dinner? Now he would never know.

“I like Yahtzee,” said Stamford, and Sherlock’s smile morphed into an expression of disdain. “That’s a game of chance, not logic or skill. Boring.” Sherlock had retrieved the Cluedo box from the cart and held it almost lovingly to his chest as he spoke.

“OK, games then,” John said. “But first things first.”

Everyone examined their luggage. Nothing from John’s duffel except a ballpoint pen and his mobile had been taken. He hoped he’d get the mobile back. It was the new Nokia 1101, and he had splurged on it. His book, notes, newspaper, gum, clothing, and the empty bag that had contained Mary’s biscuits was still there. He pulled out her note and reread it. She would know about the hijacking by now, and she would be worried sick. All of their loved ones would be. The incident would be all over the news.

Next, they explored their accommodations and found little of interest. The small bathroom contained only a toilet and sink, with no mirror. There was a bar of soap, a few hand towels, a single toothpaste tube, and eight travel toothbrushes. The main room contained nothing but the table and moulded plastic chairs. It was as much a prison as the Shawshank Penitentiary in the story John had read on the plane and, just as impenetrable. Yet in the story, Andy Dufresne had made it out. They didn’t have years to dig through these walls, a teaspoon at a time, like Andy, but maybe they could still find a way. 

Sherlock, Molly, Louise and Martha set up the Cluedo board. Stamford had persuaded Magnussen to play Yahtzee at the other end of the table. Anderson had retreated to his place against the wall and was reading one of the books that had been left for them. His sour look showed that he was still smarting from the humiliation John had inflicted.

Louise wanted to be Miss Scarlett, and Sherlock chose Professor Plum. They played five games as John watched with fascination. Sherlock won each time, and he did it with flair. He appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself, and John was impressed and surprised at how well he got on with Louise. He hadn’t pegged him as someone who would be comfortable with children, but he seemed taken with the girl.

John thought of the photo on the cover of the magazine, with Sherlock looking so aloof and mysterious. He had said he didn’t get on with people. But right now, he seemed a completely different person. He was showing off certainly, but other than snorting and rolling his eyes when Molly guessed Mrs White in the conservatory with the rope, he was almost charming. 

********

It was now eight p.m. eastern time, and the group prepared for bed. Molly, still in flight attendant mode, passed out blankets and pillows, then she, Louise and Martha claimed a corner of the room and spread out their blankets, with Louise settling between the two women. Sherlock had asked to borrow the marker, and he had some books and journals strewn about in this corner.

“It’s like a slumber party,” said Louise as she lay on the floor. “But it’s not very fun.” Then she sat up and addressed Sherlock. “But the **game** was fun, Mr Holmes. Maybe tomorrow you can teach me how you did it.”

Sherlock looked at her. The lightness that had graced his features earlier was gone. He looked solemn. Maybe even sad. “Perhaps, Louise. Go to sleep now.”

“D’you suppose they’ll turn out the lights, Stamford said. I need dark to sleep. I usually wear a mask, but it’s in my checked luggage. 

John glanced at the walls, but there were no light switches to be seen. Then he had an idea. Walking to the middle of the room, he spoke loudly.

“Hey! Can we get the lights out in here? Say in two minutes?”

John picked up his blanket and pillow and looked around the room. The ladies were in one corner, Anderson in another corner, Stamford in a third, with Magnussen in the middle of the room, putting the table between himself and the door. Sherlock was back in his original spot in the fourth corner, sitting against the wall.

Sherlock met John’s eyes and tilted his head. An invitation. John crossed the room to sit beside him.

“So now we wait,” he said.

“Now we wait,” Sherlock agreed.

John began unlacing his shoes. “Do you think Mycroft is really dead?” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I don’t know. And I don’t actually hope he’s dead. He’s my brother. I was just being dramatic before,” Sherlock whispered back.

“But you think he had something to do with the hijacking?”

“Mycroft is a pompous power-hungry asshole, but I can’t believe that he’d take part in hijacking an airplane, but the way he reacted…and the fact that he’s not here… He’s not a criminal. But nothing is making sense. I can’t figure it out, and I don’t like that. I always figure things out.”

But if Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a part of the plot and he wasn’t with the hostages, chances are he was dead. John knew this. Sherlock, brilliant as he was, must have known this too, and so John said nothing.

As John was removing his second shoe, the lights went off. The light in the bathroom remained on and cast a sliver of illumination through the curtain's edge. John could just make out Sherlock sitting beside him in the gloom. 

“I guess we should get some sleep,” John said, and although he was bone-tired, he doubted he would be able to sleep. He started to scoot away, thinking it was presumptuous of him to remain so close.

“No, stay,” Sherlock said. “I…I…mean…you should stay where we can talk without being heard. For safety.”

“Oh…um…yeah, sure,” John replied. “For safety.”

He plumped his pillow and settled down onto the carpet as Sherlock did the same.

They lay there in silence for what seemed to John an eternity. He had a million questions he wanted to ask Sherlock. What is Mycroft’s story, what caused Sherlock’s fear of flying, what did Sherlock have in mind when he had invited John to dinner? 

If this whole mess hadn’t happened, would they have finished their dinner and gone their separate ways, or would they have ended up in John’s hotel room? A wave of guilt swept over him. He hadn’t even cheated, but he felt it anyway. Maybe it was a bullet dodged that he wouldn’t get the chance.

Eventually, John felt himself drifting off. Just before he slipped into oblivion, a soft voice that sounded very much like melted chocolate said. “I’m sorry we didn’t have our dinner, John.”

His eyes flew open as he dragged himself back to consciousness.

“Huh? What?”

“Dinner, I’m sorry we didn’t have dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, me too.”

John could feel the movement of air as Sherlock breathed. He inhaled it, pulling it into his body; it was carbon dioxide that had a moment ago been inside Sherlock. It felt intimate.

“Would you have come? Really?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, course,” John said.

“You’re engaged,” Sherlock said.

“Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

Do you love her? It was a simple question, a question that should have a simple answer. But it didn’t. He did love Mary. In a way. But… But... Love shouldn’t come with a “but.” And it wasn’t her fault. It was nobody’s fault.

John sighed. “I don’t know. It’s complicated…,” he faltered.

“Then, you don’t. If you loved her, you would know.”

“She’s a good person.”

“But you were going to have dinner with me.”

“Yes, I was.” John shifted uncomfortably. It seemed like they might be talking about sex now and not steak.

“I told you before that I usually eat alone,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, you did. And honestly, I find it surprising.”

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve invited anyone to dine with me.”

There was a silence, and John could hear Sherlock draw in a breath and hold it.

“And I just thought you should know,” Sherlock said, rolling onto his back. “Goodnight, John.”

They spoke no more.


	14. Chapter 14

John woke to bright lights and the clanging of metal. Panic ripped through him, and he was back in the Gulf. His chest flooded with cold terror, and he couldn’t breathe. He sat up, blinking and gasping. It took a few seconds to realise this wasn’t Iraq, but he couldn’t identify his surroundings. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t a hotel room. He’d had an awful dream…except bloody hell, it wasn’t a dream—it had all been real. A plane full of people had been murdered, and he and the survivors of that ordeal were now hostages.

He rubbed his eyes and tried to breathe, his heart still thudding in his chest. The others were sitting up, staring at the two men they had begun to call Beefy and Baldy, who had entered the room with semi-automatic weapons. Louise’s face was buried in Molly's shoulder as Molly held her close.

John instinctively went for the knife but stopped himself. He glanced at Sherlock, who had moved away from him during the night and was now sitting about two metres away. Their eyes met briefly and then turned back to the doorway.

The men with guns stood sentinel on either side of the door as Jim Moriarty, the red-headed man, and Mycroft Holmes walked into the room. Sherlock’s older brother’s face was pale, and his mouth was a thin, grim line. He did not look at his sibling.

Moriarty was dressed in an exquisitely tailored tan suit and a white shirt, open at the collar. The three guards wore black trousers, black tee shirts, and black boots. Mycroft was in the same suit he’d worn on the plane, and judging by the wrinkles, John guessed he’d slept in it. 

Moriarty put his hands on his hips and smiled cheerfully as he surveyed the room. “Good morning, everyone. I hope you slept well. I know it isn’t the Ritz, but as your fellow passengers would tell you—if they were alive anyway, it could be worse.” He smiled as if he were waiting for them to laugh at his morbid joke. 

No one laughed.

“Are you going to tell us what the bloody hell is going on?” Martha Hudson demanded.

Moriarty made a placating gesture with his hands. “My good lady. Yes. I told you I’d fill you in this morning. And I assure you, the sooner you are all out of my hair, the better. But first, I have some business to attend to. Sherlock Holmes, that business is with **you**. So gather your things and come with me.” He gave a nod to the Beefy, who strode to where Sherlock was sitting and looked at him menacingly.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock said, looking at his brother.

“Please, just do it,” Mycroft said, still not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Fuck you,” Sherlock said to Moriarty.

“Hmm. Not in my plans. But I’m’ flattered.”

“What do you want from me?” 

“I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that I want what’s in your head – because it wasn’t on your hard drive. I want what you can build, not for me—I wouldn’t get my hands dirty that way. But I have clients.”

Sherlock’s face was dark with rage, and his blue eyes glittered. “And you heard what I said. FUCK. YOU,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

John had been watching the drama unfold with a feeling of helpless fury. He thought of the knife but knew he was outmatched. He was also frightened for Sherlock. John had had plenty of experience with evil. He had seen men like this in the war, men on **both** sides of the fight, who cared only about power. Such men were usually predictable, but this one seemed different. There was something amiss behind those dark, soulless eyes.

He wanted to tell Sherlock to stop arguing. Arguing would only make things worse. The best thing to do was to keep calm and fight back only when there was a chance you could actually win. In his mind, he was already throttling Moriarty with his bare hands—to hell with the knife. He wanted to feel the man’s life leave his body with the intimacy that only strangling him would deliver. 

The massive guard grasped Sherlock by the lapels of his leather jacket and yanked him to his feet. Sherlock immediately began struggling, trying to twist away.

“Take your hands off me!”

 _Stop it, Sherlock_ , John thought. As if he could telepathically inject some sense into the man.

Maybe it worked. Or maybe Sherlock realised that he was in a no-win situation. He stopped struggling.

“I’ll come.” He spat. The guard looked at Moriarty questioningly, and Moriarty gave a slight nod. Sherlock was released and stood tall, straightening his jacket, his face a mask. Then, Moriarty, Mycroft and Sherlock walked from the room. The three guards followed, locking the door behind them.

When they were alone, the captives stared at one another, still a little stunned. And then everyone talked at once.

“Are they going to hurt him?”

“What’s in that bloke’s head that’s so important?”

“Does this mean he’ll let us go?”

“Everybody quiet!” John shouted, getting to his feet.

“You were talking to him,” said Anderson. “Do you know why they wanted him?”

“Yeah, maybe,” John said. “He’s some sort of genius at MIT. Working on a technology that can disrupt electronics. It’s called Electromagnetic Pulse.”

“Like a ray gun or something?” Molly said.

“Yes, something like that, but it doesn’t harm living things, just electronics,” Martha said. “The world is relying more and more on electronics. Computers. It’s the future. Our communications, the power grid, the military. All vulnerable. In the mid-nineteenth century, a solar EMP known as the Carrington Event caused telegraph wires to burst into flame. Imagine what could happen **today**. It would be devastating.”

Everyone stared at the older woman.

She bristled. “What? You think that just because I’m an old lady, I don’t know things? I used to be a science teacher. And I like to read.”

“If they get what they want from Mr Einstein, maybe they’ll let us go,” Anderson said.

 _No, they won’t,_ John thought. It was time to make a plan. A plan that included rescuing Sherlock. John’s mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour. They were all still in danger, but he was most worried about what was going to happen to Sherlock. The man did not look like he intended to cooperate. That lunatic bastard Moriarty had killed an aeroplane full of innocent people. He surely wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sherlock…or worse.

He told himself that his concern was dispassionate, that he would have felt that way about any of his fellow travellers. But it wasn’t true. Sherlock was brilliant and fascinating and…yes, gorgeous. But It was more profound than that, and John couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling. Maybe it was the vulnerability Sherlock had displayed during the turbulence when he invited John to hold his hand. Whatever it was, he was not going to sit here any longer waiting for fate to play out. He was going to get them out of here. And he wasn’t going to leave without Sherlock. This was as much a battlefield as the sands of Iraq. And Captain John Watson did not intend to lose a man. Not this time. Not again. _Never again_.

He put a finger to his lips, cautioning them all to keep their voices down. Then said a bit more loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in.

“Yeah. Now that they have what they want, we may be safe. All we can do is wait and see.” 

He picked up the notebook from the table and reached in his pocket for the Sharpie, but it wasn’t there. He’d forgotten he’d given it to Sherlock. So instead, he mouthed, “We’re going to find a way out of here.”

Soon the prisoners were served a cold breakfast by the same two guards that had brought their dinner. During their captivity, they had seen just the four men: Moriarty, Baldy, Beefy, and Red. Was that all there were? Could they really be that lucky?

John took his juice and pastry to the corner of the room where he and Sherlock had slept the night before. _Our corne_ r. Setting the food on the floor, he pulled his duffel bag onto his lap and inventoried the contents once more, looking for the equivalent of the rock-hammer that Andy Dufresne had used to escape from Shawshank. He found nothing.

He crawled over to Sherlock’s spot. He’d taken his briefcase, but maybe he’d left something behind. At least the Sharpie marker. Jackpot! The marker was sitting atop the _Journal of American Physics_. He picked it up. Sherlock stared out at him from the cover. His eyes were intense and haughty, and his hair perfectly styled. The collar of his tight white shirt was opened to mid-chest. Really, this could be GQ and not some nerdy journal. The table of contents indicated that the article featuring Sherlock began on page fifty-four. John flipped to that page, and a piece of paper slipped out and fell between his legs to the floor. He was about to retrieve it when he saw an inscription written in black marker across the top of the page above a photo of Sherlock leaning against a desk in a cluttered office. 

_John,_

_Maybe you’ll find this, and maybe you won’t. But If you are reading this, I fear we will never have that dinner. But I’m glad we met – again. I don’t know why you did what you did, or rather didn’t do, back then, but it is what it is._

_Tell Louise that I’m sorry. She reminds me so much of my little sister!_

_Leaving this note is the height of selfishness, But I’m a selfish man, and I want you to remember me and what we had. Do you remember me, Johnny? Because I’ve never forgotten you. _

_I hope that you and the others get out of this alive._

_Sherlock William Holmes_

_Johnny?_ John furrowed his brow in confusion. I’m glad we met **again**? He didn’t know what to make of the note. He hadn’t been Johnny in at least a decade. He reached between his legs and picked up the piece of paper that had fallen between them. Except it wasn’t a piece of paper, it was a photograph, a Polaroid.

John stared at the picture, stunned. It was a faded photo of two teenage boys on a dock, one muscular and blonde, and the other one thin as a rail with a riot of black curls. They were smiling, and the slender boy had his arm around the blonde’s shoulders. A little girl with dark hair sat on the dock with her feet in the water. A wooden sign in the background said, “Camp Kanawha,” and written in the white space beneath the photo were the words, “Will and Johnny 1978.”

Will. Will Andrews was Sherlock Holmes? John’s brain stuttered over this information. He hadn’t seen Will for fifteen years, and with only the shadowed features in his own Polaroid to remind him, William had become a blurred idea. Almost not real. A beautiful memory but also a regret. Not regret for what they did and what they’d shared. But for what came just after that, before John had come to terms with himself. He was ashamed of how he’d treated Will by binning his letters. Is that what Sherlock was referring to when he’d written “ _or rather, didn’t do_ ”?

John dropped his head to his knees and closed his eyes. Christ. He had sat next to Will on the plane yesterday and hadn’t recognised him. Those eyes. He had noticed the eyes. But the Will he remembered hadn’t been tall. They had been roughly the same size back then, and Sherlock was six feet at least. And the nose was different too, wasn’t it? He cursed himself for his failure to remember. But it did explain the strange chemistry and the attraction he’d felt.

He opened his eyes and stared at the photograph. He had let Will down all those years ago. He had broken his promise and maybe Will’s heart. He had failed him just as he’d failed Murray in Iraq, but he could never make it up to Murray; he was dead. With Will, there was at least a chance of redemption. He **had** to rescue him. He owed him that much, didn’t he?

He tucked the photo into the pocket of his shirt. He needed a plan. And whatever the plan was, he couldn’t do it alone. He was going to need help. He glanced around the room. Martha, Molly and Louise were seated at one end of the table, finishing their breakfast. Magnussen and Stamford were at the other, playing Yahtzee again. Anderson was on the floor, reading his book.

These people were a far cry from the trained soldiers he was used to commanding. Commanding this civilian team was going to be a challenge, indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

A rough hand in the middle of his back pushed Sherlock into another windowless room. This one was considerably more comfortable than the one in which he and the other captives had spent the night. Books lined the wood-panelled walls, and a cart with liquor bottles sat beside the upholstered sofa on which James Moriarty reclined, holding a glass of amber liquid. A long riding crop rested across his knees. 

The same armed guards that had been present yesterday were stationed at either end of the room, and Mycroft sat stiffly in an armchair, empty-handed and unsmiling. Sherlock glared at him. Mycroft met his eyes for a moment and then looked away.

“Mr Holmes, welcome. Please have a seat.” Moriarty gestured toward a simple wooden chair in the middle of the room.

“No, thank you, I’ll stand,” Sherlock said.

“No, you’ll sit.”

The bald guard grabbed his shoulders and jerked him into the chair. Sherlock seethed with rage at the rough treatment. He wanted to scream. He wanted to do **something.** He hated this feeling of powerlessness. But he kept silent and continued to observe. If he kept his wits about him, perhaps he could take in some detail that would work to his advantage. 

“Would you like a drink?” Moriarty said. “It’s McCallan 1926. Six Hundred pounds a bottle.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Suit yourself.”

“Do you know why you’re here? You’re a smart man. Very smart, from what I hear. Your big brother has been very complimentary.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who remained silent.

“You are uncharacteristically taciturn,” Sherlock said acidly. “What’s the matter, brother mine. Cat got your tongue?”

The brothers stared at one another as Moriarty watched with interest. Then Mycroft took a deep breath.

“Sherlock, I had no idea this would happen. That all those people would—"

“Ah. I see,” Sherlock interrupted. “It was only supposed to be me. All the others are just collateral damage. And how much is he paying you, Mycroft? How much am I worth?”

“Lots and lots,” Moriarty said. “Your brother is a greedy man! But if your technology works—"

“Of course, it will work!” Sherlock interjected.

“If it works,” Moriarty repeated. “It will make any two-bit country, or any insurgency, or tribe who has it, extremely powerful. It’s like a nuclear bomb without the mass casualties. It could take down governments, militaries. I’ll have clients lining up at my door.”

“Without casualties?” Sherlock said incredulously. “I assure you, if this were in the wrong hands, it would result in casualties.” He turned to Mycroft. “I trusted you! I trusted you to help me keep it out of the wrong hands! You…bastard!”

“And you!” Sherlock turned his rage on Moriarty. “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything?”

“The seven innocents in that room. And your brother here. That’s quite a bit of leverage, don’t you agree?”

“Why do you think I care about them?” Sherlock said. “If you know anything about me, then you know that I don’t care about people. I may care about society in the abstract, the greater good, if you will. But I don’t get sentimental. What is my life, or a dozen lives, or **his** ,” he jutted his chin toward Mycroft, “compared to millions of lives?” 

“Are you sure? Moriarty inquired. You’ve spent the last eighteen hours with them under crisis conditions. Surely you’ve developed some sort of connection. You are human, aren’t you? Did you just sit in a corner by yourself all night?”

Realisation dawned on Sherlock, and he cursed himself silently for having not seen it sooner. “Oh! I get it. Clue. Was that Mycroft’s idea? Is that why we didn’t have this conversation yesterday? You thought I couldn’t resist playing Clue. You thought I’d bond with them, develop some sympathy. You overestimate me, I’m afraid.”

“Did I? We’ll see.” Moriarty signalled to the guard by the door he opened it to usher in the hostages, Anderson, John, Molly, Magnussen, Martha and Stamford. Sherlock was relieved to see that Louise was not among them. He hoped that Moriarty had at least a shred of humanity and would spare her whatever fate he had in mind for the others. He took a breath and willed himself not to look at John. He wanted to. He wanted to find those deep blue eyes. But he could absolutely **not** look for them. If he did, he was sure that Moriarty would see his feelings, and that would be the end of John. 

He hadn’t seen John in fifteen years. John hadn’t written him back after camp. He had abandoned Sherlock at the worst possible time in his life. Back when he was still innocent and unhardened. Sherlock had wept. And he had raged. And yet, somehow, he had also forgiven John.

Sherlock had carried the photo with him for all this time. He had wondered why he couldn’t move on from that teenage love affair. He had drowned his anguish in alcohol and drugs and tried to fill the void with soulless encounters. It didn’t work. He suspected that he had some sort of mental illness. Normal people get over summer camp flings, don’t they? But then, he’d never been normal. And the past eighteen hours had confirmed that he was one hundred per cent, without a doubt, still in love with Johnny Watson. 

And now here John was. Right in front of him. And Sherlock could not look at him. Not with Moriarty watching. Because if he knew, if he even suspected, then one of two things would happen. John would die, or Sherlock would turn over his work. John’s life depended on Moriarty believing he didn’t care. He swept his eyes quickly over the line of people and then back to Moriarty. He tried to give his best “I don’t give a fuck” look.

Moriarty walked down the line of captives and counted them off, tapping each head with his riding crop as he counted, “One, two, three, four, five, six.” Then he turned to Sherlock.

“We can end this whole matter right now. No fuss, no muss. Give me your research and stay here until a test device is built—just to make sure you aren’t cheating. Agree to that, and all these fine people will be sent home unharmed. And if you deliver on your promise, they will remain unharmed.”

“And Mycroft?”

“When we have you, we also have Mycroft, so to speak. With your life as leverage and his own career at stake, he’ll be useful to me in his current role in U.S. Intelligence. I promise not to kill you, and he promises to pass me certain information.”

“Your promises are worthless,” Sherlock spat.

Moriarty grinned. “Perhaps, but you both have no choice but to trust me. So, what will it be, Mr Holmes?”

And then Sherlock Holmes spat on Jim Moriarty’s shiny Italian loafer.

Jim looked at his shoes for a moment. Then he shook his head sadly.

“You are making a big mistake, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing. There were a great many things he wanted to say, the first of which was that he never made mistakes, but he held his tongue, not wanting to make things worse for himself or the hostages.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but on we go,” Moriarty said, snapping his fingers. The bald guard handed him a black velvet drawstring bag. Moriarty shook the bag and held it up so that everyone could see it.

“In this bag are six numbered tiles. Sherlock, you are a smart man; I’m sure you can guess to what they correspond. I’d like you to reach in and draw a number—just one.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at the madman. He knew exactly what was going on and hoped that Moriarty couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. It thudded in his ears, and he felt the beginnings of panic. Almost like he had felt on the plane. He had to quell it. He closed his eyes and exhaled. One out of six, there was an eighty-three per cent chance that it wouldn’t be John. But there was no way in hell he was going to risk being the one to pull the tile with a number two on it out of the bag.

He opened his eyes, his lips in a tight thin line, and shook his head.

Moriarty shrugged and turned to offer the bag to Mycroft, who also shook his head and then turned away. 

“Have it your way.” Moriarty reached slowly into the bag.

 _Not John, Not John, Not John_ , Sherlock thought frantically as Moriarty pulled out a tile. “Number four!” he announced dramatically.

Sherlock let out the breath he’d been holding as the room went deadly silent. Charles Magnussen was number four, but lucky for him, he didn’t immediately grasp the significance. Without hesitation, the redheaded guard raised his weapon and fired once into the back of Magnussen’s head.

The man fell, and the other hostages recoiled. Molly screamed as blood spattered her face, and Martha Hudson covered her eyes. Stamford and Anderson gasped and stared. Only John stood stalwart, his eyes straight ahead.

He’s seen worse, Sherlock realised. Then John’s eyes shifted, and Sherlock met them for the first time, but only for a split second before looking away again. But it was enough to tell Sherlock that John intended to fight. If not for Sherlock, then at least for himself and the others.

“You think that impresses me?” Sherlock said. “I told you. I don’t care about these people. I don’t care about individuals. I do, however, care about civilization as we know it. I like my comforts, and I don’t want them interfered with. I’m not going to give you my work, so you might as well just gun them all down.”

Jim Moriarty circled the chair in which Sherlock sat and finally came to stand in front of him.

“I hope you didn’t think I’d forget about your little temper tantrum,” he said, gesturing at his shoe where Sherlock’s spit still shone. “Uh! So vulgar! I’d like you to take care of that. I’d like you to get on your hands and knees and lick it off. Now.”

“What makes you think I’d do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know? Maybe **her**?”

The bald guard entered the room, pushing Louise ahead of him, and she fell to the ground, crying. “Don’t hurt me! Please. Mr Holmes, please don’t let them hurt me!” Her T-shirt was ripped at the shoulder, and her face was dirty and tear streaked.

“I’m scared!” She wailed. “I want my mum!” And when she saw the dead man on the floor, she shrieked.

Sherlock stared at Moriarty with horror that he couldn’t hide.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would, although I’d take no pleasure in it.”

John Watson lurched forward out of the line, his face livid and fists clenched. “You’re a fucking monster; she’s a child!” He stepped back into place when the gun that had dropped Magnussen was pointed at his head. Moriarty ignored the outburst and continued to wait for Sherlock to respond.

Sherlock glanced at John, allowing himself only the briefest second of eye contact. In that second, he desperately tried to communicate that John shouldn’t risk himself. Then Sherlock looked in turn at each of the frightened hostages. _Expendable._ And finally, at Louise, at her wide tear-filled eyes. And he saw Eurus instead. So young and innocent with her whole life ahead of her. And it was in his hands. He swallowed hard.

Moriarty pointed to his shoe.

Sherlock looked down at the black leather loafer, and fury boiled in his veins, directed at Moriarty, and Mycroft, and at himself for being so weak. He looked at Louise once more and made his decision. Slowly, he slipped out of the chair and to the floor. Moriarty grinned. Humiliated, Sherlock advanced on his hands and knees, closing the distance between them. He hesitated only a moment before lowering himself, extending his tongue, and licking the gob of saliva from Moriarty’s loafer. It tasted of shoe polish. In the background, Martha gasped, “Oh, goodness.” Then, Sherlock sat back, wiped his mouth, and looked up at the shoe’s loathsome owner.

“All right. You’ve won. Let her go.”

Moriarty smiled and gestured at Louise. “Come here, child.” The guard gave her a push, and she walked tentatively toward him. When she was near, Moriarty grasped her shoulders and turned her to face Sherlock, who was still sitting on his heels on the floor. Then he crouched beside her. “Thank Mr Holmes for saving your life.”

“Th—Thank you,” she sniffled.

“Now, off you go. You’ll be back with your mum in no time.” The guard took the girl’s arm and escorted her from the room.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. Now, shall we get down to business?”

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, his brain whirring, turning, and weighing his options. Slotting all the things he had seen, heard, and discovered in the last few minutes into place in his mind, then rearranging them at lightning speed. When they had all fallen into an order that made sense, he swallowed hard and made a calculated bet. Risky, but the balance of probability was on his side. Moriarty would not kill the little girl. 

Sherlock stood, drawing himself up to his full height and straightening his shoulders. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m happy to lick your shoe, but I don’t intend to give you the plans. I’ve changed my mind.” 

Moriarty frowned, and his dark eyes flashed with anger. The two men glowered at one another. The room was utterly silent as the hostages, the guards and Mycroft Holmes watched the stare-down with morbid fascination.

Then Moriarty’s lip curled up in a half-smile. He pulled a walkie talkie from his belt, clicked it on, and said, “Do it.”

There were two beats of silence. Then a piercing scream came from the hallway outside of the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. The screaming stopped abruptly.

Sherlock said nothing. He willed his face into an expressionless mask.

Mike Stamford dropped to his knees, his head in his hands, sobbing. Martha and Molly clung to one another. Philip Anderson, pale as a ghost, stared aghast at Sherlock. John looked at Sherlock with pity but also understanding. John was a soldier. A warrior. And undoubtedly familiar with the military strategist, Sun Tzu, who famously said, “Victory is reserved for those who are willing to pay its price.”

Mycroft had dropped into the armchair, mouth open. His thin hair hung in strings over his forehead where he had clutched at it. He looked at Sherlock with despair, guilt, and horror, but no accusation. Sherlock knew that whatever his faults, his brother also understood his decision.

“Again, you overestimate my capacity for sentiment,” Sherlock said. “These people mean nothing to me. **She** meant nothing to me. Not more than my work or my country. And you can go straight to hell.”

At a look from Moriarty, the bald guard forced Sherlock backwards and into the wooden chair. His arms were wrenched behind his back, and he felt the bite of handcuffs on his wrists.

Moriarty towered over him, sneering, and then spoke to the hostages, who were now huddled together, comforting one another. “Did you hear that? He doesn’t care about your lives. Not even the life of that sweet little girl. So maybe all he cares about is himself. Well, I can work with that too.”

Before Sherlock even saw it coming, the riding crop slashed across his face, snapping his head back. His cry of pain was cut off as the crop landed on the other cheek, and he toppled, chair and all, to the ground. His head hit the hard floor with a thud, and he gasped. The pain was tremendous. Then something hard drove into his solar plexus, and then another blinding pain exploded in his head, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth just as everything went dark.


End file.
